PBW Stories

2011-06-16T07:34:00.003-04:00

An excerpt from Book #1, Lords of the Darkyn trilogy
by Lynn Viehl

Gabriel went back to the car and opened the boot, removing a colorful tote bag before he returned. “Do you want to wear the red beret or the Mickey Mouse ears?”

Nicola scowled and held out her hand. “Give me the ears.”

Once they were ready, Gabriel walked with her to the pier, where Nicola began to tow him by the arm toward the ship.

“Get a picture of those barnacles, honey,” she said in a loud voice as she started up the ramp. As Gabriel pretended to use the oversize camera hanging from the strap around his neck, she fluttered her hand at the men standing above them. “Yoo-hoo. Fellas. Has the tour started?” She frowned as she pulled out a phrasebook. “Um, I mean, lay tour co-men-say?”

The men looked at each other before one of them said, “Madam, this is a private vessel.”

“Oh, you speak English, thank goodness.” She heaved a sign. “I failed French in high school. Twice.”

“Madam, I must ask you—”

“Right, right, you need our tickets for tour.” Nicola opened the tote bag and began searching through it as she pushed between them to step onto the deck. “Honey, did you put them in the pocket this morning like I told you?”

“Sure did, darlin’.” Gabriel took advantage of the distraction to move past the men and slip up behind another guarding the entrance to the hold. He covered his mouth as he plucked the clear plug out of his nose, and the scent of evergreen grew thick and hot.

“Madam,” one of the men said, “there is no tour.”

“Just a sec, sweetie, I’ve got them right here somewhere.” She lifted her head and gave Gabriel a wink before he went around the corner to deal with the other two guards. “I can’t believe how authentic everything looks,” Gabriel heard her say. “You’re even wearing guns, like real scumbags.”

By the time he had knocked out and secured the other guards the two by Nicola were growing visibly agitated. “You must leave,” one of them told her. “Now.”

“You’re not our tour guide, are you? No offense, but I’d like someone a little friendlier.” She reached out and plucked the nine millimeter from one of the guard’s shoulder holster. “Wow, this is really heavy.” Before he could react, she relieved the other guard of his Glock. “I think I like this one better. It’s shinier.”

One of the men grabbed at her, dislodging the Mickey Mouse ears off her head. The wind caught the hat and sent it sailing over the side.

“Hey.” Nicola glanced over the railing before she scowled at the guard. “You drowned my ears. You douche.” She straightened, flipped the guns in her hands, holding the barrels as she used them to pistol-whip both guards at the same time. “I loved those ears.” As the men crumpled to the deck, she tossed one of the guns to Gabriel before she leaned over the unconscious guard. “I ought to shoot you in the head, you heartless Mickey Mouse-hating bastard.”

2011-03-16T23:44:00.000-04:00

An excerpt from Dark of Heart ~
Tales from the Lost Ledger
by Lynn Viehl

“Why on earth are you wearing black on the first day of school, Karise Carson?”

“I figured you’d have pretty and pink covered, Mrs. H.” Kari turned around to face her favorite teacher, who wore a pale rose-colored twinset and a double-stranded pearl necklace. “Well, get out of town. I’m psychic.”

Mrs. Hopkins’ lips pressed together as she glanced at the cup in Kari’s hand. “Is that coffee?”

“Nope. Tequila.” Kari watched a freshman boy run past them, the seat of his new jeans sopping wet, before she held out the drink. “Want some?”

“No, thank you.” The sound of laughter drew the teacher’s attention. “Report to my office after school tomorrow.”

“A detention, already?” Kari glanced at the chunky man’s watch strapped to her left wrist. “It’s not even seven-thirty yet. That has to be a new personal record.”

“It’s for the first meeting of the newsletter staff,” Mrs. Hopkins corrected. “Two-thirty sharp. Don’t forget.” She started walking toward a group gathered at the far end of the hall away before she looked back over her shoulder. “And Kari, whatever that is, get rid of it.”

Kari chugged a bit more of the coffee she’d lifted from the Welcome Parents! hospitality table in the cafeteria before she tossed the cup in the trash and headed for homeroom. Along the way she collected a dozen startled looks, twenty or so contemptuous stares, and three finger-pointings, complete with giggly whispers. After four years of similar treatment she hardly noticed anymore; it was just another price she paid while being forced to live in Lost Lake, the smallest, dullest and definitely the creepiest town in Central Florida.

Mr. Gordon, Tanglewood High’s football coach and Kari’s homeroom teacher for sophomore year, looked up as soon as she came in. “No. Not you.”

“Yes. Me.” She pulled an apple from her pocket and made a show of placing it on one corner of his blotter. As the kids behind her snickered, she learned over the desk to say in a stage whisper, “Don’t worry, Coach. I promise not to join cheerleading, or booster club, or key club. Then again, if you’re going to sponsor something really interesting, like say a club for slasher flick fans, or Future Bikers of America—”

He silenced her with a stop-hand, and then turned it to point at a front row seat directly in front of his desk. “Park it right there, Ms. Carson.”

“Aw, so close? See, you did miss me.” Before Kari could sit down, the girls sitting around her seat abandoned theirs. A minute later the snotty comments commenced behind her, and she amused herself by pegging the voices.

“Look at how short her hair is. Euw.”

That came from Tammy Walters, who thought growing her thin, oily hair down to her waist completely disguised the forty extra pounds she had acquired since freshman year.

“Did she shave her head over the summer?”

That would be Tammy’s BFF, Suzie Broderman. She suffered from a moderately serious acne problem, which actually did distract most people from noticing how much Suze resembled a weasel.

“She got her nose pierced last year during spring break,” someone said in between rapid chews. “That’s just so gross.”

So ruled Janet Phillips, whose gum addiction was only slightly less repulsive than the purging she did in the girls’ restroom immediately before homeroom and after lunch.

Kari didn’t particularly care for being discussed as if she were invisible, but she’d set herself on fire before she even acknowledged it.

“I heard she has one, you know.” Suze lowered her voice to a hissy whisper. “Down there.”

Now and then Kari still felt a little twinge from her third and latest piercing, which was not as far south as Ferret Face seemed to think. She considered flashing it, but she hadn’t yet told her mother about her navel ring. Any girl at school who saw it would tell their mother, who would then make a point of mentioning it to Gloria Carson the next time they went to the grocery store where she worked during the day. Kari had gotten plenty of grief for her other piercings, and after what had happened over the summer, she wouldn’t tell her mother she had gotten pierced again even if someone had impaled her with a two-by-four.

As the last bell rang and Mr. Gordon got up to shut the classroom door, one last student slipped inside. Although the boy was not in his seat, and therefore technically late, the teacher said only “Morning, Devlin.”

“Coach.” The tall, muscular boy nodded to him before he scanned the room, his bright blue eyes passing over Kari as if she were invisible.

To Connor Devlin, Kari thought, she probably was.

A glance back confirmed all the desks in the room were occupied now except the one to the right of Kari’s. As Connor hung his backpack over one corner of the chair back, she shifted slightly so she wouldn’t have her retinas burned by the blinding whiteness of his immaculate, fitted polo shirt (she was tempted to put on her shades, but Gordon would view that as a personal insult and confiscate them.)

Golden Boy almost had it all. Good looks ran in his family; his Dad’s handsome face smiled out from billboards all over the county, and his mother had been a famous beauty pageant winner who went all the way to runner-up for Miss Florida before she decided to turn in her tiara to teach special ed kids. Connor couldn’t have purchased better parents.

No doubt AwesomeMom and Dad had inspired Connor to become WonderSon, because he played on both the football and baseball teams, and had been captain of the swim team since sixth grade. Add to that the pretty face and killer body, and it wasn't hard to see why Connor had become a card-carry member of the Universally Admired. He made straight A’s, scored off the grid on aptitude tests and never, ever forgot to do his homework. Teachers loved him like an undemanded pay raise.

He wasn’t the most popular boy at school – Aaron Boone had held onto that title since fifth grade – but he was definitely first runner up and would happily serve if anything happened to Boone. Connor had been elected as class vice-president every year since sixth grade (without trying; no one dared run against him.) When he wasn’t neck-deep in some project to infect other kids with school spirit, he volunteered as a batting coach for Little League.

The only problem Connor Devlin supposedly had was girl shyness. He’d only ever dated one; a softball pitcher named Jackie Faber. She’d been two years older than him and graduated last year, at which point she had promptly dumped Connor before moving to the other side of the country for college. From the way everyone had reacted to the news, Kari had wondered if Jackie had carved out one of Golden Boy’s kidneys to take with her.

Kari noted the sun streaks in his brown hair, and his always-flawless tan, that had somehow grown deeper and more golden. He’d probably spent the entire summer sunning himself on some exotic Caribbean island while getting over Jackie.

Connor caught her watching him and gave her a nod. He wasn’t particularly friendly or social, but he never got into trouble and in alignment with his teacher ass-kissing he had a rep for being polite to everyone, no matter where they landed on the social importance scale.

In return Kari gave him the shoulder. Golden boy probably didn’t know her mother worked for his father cleaning houses before they went on the market, but even if he did, he shouldn’t be shoving his dazzling niceness in her face. Hadn’t his saintly mother taught him how to pretend trailer park trash like Kari Carson didn’t exist?

Technically I’m not trailer park trash anymore, she corrected herself. Now mom and I are low-income apartment housing refuse.

“I’m Mr. Gordon, and this is Homeroom 7A,” the coach said, silencing the students in the process. He scooped up a stack of forms and handed smaller piles to the first student in each row. “These are your emergency contact forms and other papers you and your parents have to fill out for the front office. They’re due back to me on Friday morning, so get them done, people.”

While Mr. Gordon went to turn up the PA speaker for morning announcements, Kari opened her backpack to retrieve a pen and start filling in the forms. Inside was a crumpled, rolled-up paper bag that had a mustard stain on one side; it smelled suspiciously of bologna. Gloria was trying to play Good Mommy again by making her lunch.

Too bad she never remembers how much I despise processed meat.

As soon as the bell for first period rang Kari balled up Gloria’s lunch and with an expert throw tossed it in the garbage can beside the door.

“Two points,” Connor said as he got up from his desk and shouldered his backpack. He didn’t walk out, but hovered between their desks. “You should try out for girls’ basketball.”

Kari frowned. Golden Boy was talking to her. Actually speaking to her. Like she existed in his world. Which she never would, and they both knew it.

She got a small amount of satisfaction from walking past him without a word. He didn’t have to exist in her world, either.

Kari’s next three classes were as boring as she’d expected, and since she’d been slotted for second lunch she skipped it to lurk outside Visual Arts until Mrs. Skyler came back from the cafeteria to prepare for class.

“I would applaud you for being so early, Ms. Carson,” the art teacher said as she unlocked the door, “but you’re not scheduled for any of my classes.”

“A great personal loss for me, frankly,” Kari said as she followed her inside. “It’s nice that you looked for my name on your rosters.”

“Oh, we all look for it, dearie.” Mrs. Skyler began unloading from her tote bag jars of primary-colored poster paint, which she placed in a neat row in her supply cabinet. “Now what can I do for you that won’t violate the terms of your parole?”

Kari put on her best woeful face. “Well, since I didn’t get Visual Arts this semester, it’s going to be a complete void for me. I’m really worried that my art will suffer.” She picked up a watercolor from a nearby desk that depicted a turkey-size, googly-eyed swallow that appeared to be dropping like a stone from a cartoon sky. “And I’ll end up painting things like this. Wow. Was this Picasso sitting a little too near the glue tubes, or what?”

As she turned to get more paint, the art teacher neatly removed the watercolor from her hands and returned it to the desk. “Let’s stick to whatever you’re suffering from, shall we?”

“Sure, absolutely. And you do know how important my art is to me.” She leaned against the side of the supply cabinet. “Being unable to express myself could inflict a huge amount of emotional damage. I may even need counseling or something.”

Mrs. Skyler closed the cabinet doors. “All of my classes are full, and I can’t transfer a student out to make room for you or your tortured muse.”

“I’m not asking you to do that,” Kari said quickly. “But if I could borrow one of the classroom cameras, just for a couple months until I save up to buy my own, it would solve my problem and let me continue to explore my artist boundaries.”

“Dearie, you have no boundaries whatsoever. That is your problem.” The teacher faced her. “What happened to the one you used to take all those candid portraits of the faculty last year?”

Kari looked down at her boots. “I, ah, lost it over the summer.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Her voice became brisk. “But the current policy prohibits teachers from lending school property to students for personal use.”

“I’ll be using it to take photos for the school newsletter,” Kari assured her. “That’s not personal. Please, I really need this.” Maybe a little honesty would help. “Without a camera, I feel . . . blind.”

Mrs. Skyler sighed. “I wish could help, Karise. However, even if I could get approval from the front office, I don’t have any cameras to lend out.”

That didn’t make sense; Kari knew the art teacher had at least four. “Who got here before me?”

“Thieves,” the art teacher said. “Two were stolen over the summer and have yet to be recovered. The other two were signed out for the yearbook staff this morning before I got to school. They’ll be using them until at least February or March.”

“Principal Deaver is going to buy replacements for the two that were stolen, won’t he?” When the art teacher shook her head, Kari felt her stomach knot. “Right, I forgot. He’s a cheapskate.”

“Don’t go blaming Mr. Deaver now,” Mrs. Skyler chided. “The school board cut our funding again this year, and he has more important things to buy, like textbooks for the classrooms, and food for the lunch programs.” She hesitated before she added, “Talk to Mrs. Hopkins. I’m sure she’ll be happy to put a notice in the newsletter asking for the donation of a camera.”

It wasn’t a bad suggestion, but Kari knew that Mrs. Hopkins wouldn’t believe she’d lost her camera over the summer. “It’s okay. I’ll figure out something else.” She managed a wan smile, genuine this time. “Thanks.”

On her way out, she nearly blundered into someone walking in, and muttered an apology as she swerved to one side, banging into the door. A slim hand touched the underside of her forearm as she righted herself and looked up into heavenly blue eyes.

Connor Devlin. Again. And this time he was touching her. Holding onto her. Looking at her with concern.

“Are you all right?”

Golden Boy probably had fifteen cameras at home, Kari thought. Expensive ones. All gathering dust on the shelves next to his thousands of trophies. Resentment boiled over inside her as she yanked her arm free. “Get away from me.”

He lifted his hands, palms-out, and started to say something. “I need to—”

The bell rang, drowning him out, and Kari turned her back on him to head to her next class. Whatever Connor Devlin needed, he’d have to get it from someone else.

2010-11-30T23:51:00.003-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #30

I haven't been writing up notes for the last ten days as I felt my stats were a bit depressing, and all I wanted to do was whine, but I have been writing every day since the last update.

I did not make the 50K goal; didn't even make it to the halfway mark, but I'm happy that even under the worst circumstances I kept working on the story.

My final totals for the month: 19,256 words/97 pages.

Congratulations to everyone who won NaNoWriMo this year. To everyone who didn't but gave it a try, consider yourself hugged, and I hope we'll have a chance to try it again in 2011.

2010-11-20T01:45:00.003-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #20

It's 1:21 am, and 56 degrees F here out on the porch. Everyone is asleep except the dogs, who are intelligent and have decided to stay inside where it's warm. I have to stay awake for another two hours so I can play pre-dawn chauffeur (long story) which is why I'm porching it tonight. It's quiet, and the cold helps keep me from nodding off when I go back out there to outline my next scene.

I know it's day twenty of NaNoWriMo, but only because I had to check the calendar before uploading my latest PBW post. I haven't updated my NaNo notes since day 14? because I wasn't paying attention to my word count. It was all I could do to go in, sit down, and write something new. Six days of drag, trudge, drag.

Today I devoted all of my writing and editing time to looking over the stuff I've written over the last six days, two-thirds of it had to be thrown out, and leaves me with 1026 in new words. I won't take credit for writing what I trashed; it was unreadable drek. Publishing tried a couple of times to get into my writing space today, but I (politely) kicked it back out. I want my final ten days of NaNo to be as Publishing-free as possible.

After I make this pre-dawn trip and come home/get some sleep, I'll be back at it. I hope to slip into the novel via my scene outline and stay there for a couple hours, but even if I don't, I'll just write until I get something worth adding to my progress meter.

Onward.

Collective Stats:
Wordcount: 1026
Pages: 5
Time: six days
Sessions: sporadic

2010-11-14T00:00:00.001-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #14

I didn't feel like it, but I made myself sit down and write a couple of pages tonight. Getting some words down did make me feel a bit better.

Today's Stats:
Wordcount: 480
Pages: 2
Time: 11:00pm-12:00pm
Sessions: 1 @ 1 hours

2010-11-13T17:20:00.002-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #12 & #13

No writing to report; I spent yesterday and today mainly with my boy Jak here, who just passed away peacefully in my arms after a long illness. He was an angel of a cat.

2010-11-11T00:00:00.000-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #11

Zero writing accomplished on the NaNo novel today; I forgot my youngest had the day off from school, so I shuffled the work aside and spent the day out with her getting a new phone, having veggie burgers for lunch and talking about life in general.

Zero words, but zero regrets. Any day I can spend with my kid is a great day.

2010-11-10T00:00:00.002-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #10

Made a bit more headway today. In the midst of working out the end of a chapter the protagonists decided to deviate from the plan, but their direction made more sense, so I ran with it.

This year's NaNo for me has been slow and frustrating, and all the crises and interruptions are keeping me out of the zone. Today for the first time I felt as if I were hovering just at the edge of it; hopefully tomorrow I can jump in.

Today's Stats:
Wordcount: 2042
Pages: 10
Time: 6:30am-7:00am; 10:00am-12:45pm
Sessions: 1 @ 30 minutes, 1 @ 2 hours 45 minutes

2010-11-09T23:52:00.004-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #9

I unplugged from the internet this morning and decided to think out some things. Also made an apple pie, caught up on the laundry and moved the furniture back onto the now-dry clean carpets. Then an editor called to ask a favor and I had to shift back into pro mode and take care of that.

Got the next chapter off to a good start, just didn't get as much time as I wanted to write it. Tomorrow I'm unplugging the business phone!

Today's Stats:
Wordcount: 1042
Pages: 6
Time: 10:30pm-11:45pm
Sessions: 1 @ 1 hour 15 minutes

2010-11-08T23:53:00.003-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #8

I crossed the 10K threshold today while wrapping up a chapter, starting a new one and getting deeper into protagonist #1's motivations. I also did a bit of work on a scene that occurs about eight chapters down the story road, but I had the dialogue and the choreography bouncing around in my head and I wanted to do a quick draft to preserve it.

My brain doesn't seem to want to sync with the time change; I was up at 5:00 am and by 9:30 pm I was totalled. Night time writing is also not my favorite thing, but I had to deal with the logistics involved with the winter carpet cleaning for most of today; tomorrow's schedule is finally, blissfully free so I'm hoping to knock out at least one new chapter while the sun is still up.

Today's Stats:
Wordcount: 1795
Pages: 7
Time: 6:30am-7:00am; 9:30pm-11:30am
Sessions: 1 @ 30 mins.; 1 @ 2 hours

2010-11-07T00:00:00.000-04:00

NaNoWriMo Day #7

Was out most of the day at an all-day annual event with the family, but still squeezed in two hours of writing. Finished the first scene with my stubborn protagonist #2 and made a decent start on the end scene of the chapter.

Today's Stats:
Wordcount: 1250
Pages: 6
Time: 6:00am-7:00am; 11:00pm-12:00am
Sessions: 2 @ 1 hour

2010-11-06T23:38:00.003-04:00

NaNoWriMo Day #5 & #6

I don't know how many words I managed on Friday; I simply focused and wrote until I dropped and then got up Saturday and went right back to the story to edit the new pages. I then gave myself the rest of Saturday off to rest, relax and recharge.

2 Day's Stats:
Wordcount: 1503
Pages: 8
Time: Didn't watch the clock
Sessions: Ditto

2010-11-04T23:45:00.000-04:00

NaNoWriMo Day #4

I slugged it out with my second protagonist today, and it wasn't pretty. I put the novel aside and went for a long walk, did some cleaning and ran some errands while I thought about him and what was getting in my way with writing him. I decided it was the contrast with the first protagonist, plus my own indecision about how much of his situation I wanted to get into in these beginning chapters.

When I sat down tonight I dumped the three pages I wrote yesterday and started the chapter over from scratch, and somewhere around 11:00 pm I felt like I finally got into his head. I didn't produce much in the way of wordcount, but I think I made great strides in getting my head and his aligned.

Today's Stats:
Wordcount: 724
Pages: 3
Time: 6:30am-7:00am, 10:00pm-11:30pm
Sessions: 1 @ 30 minutes; 1 @ 1 hour 30 minutes

2010-11-03T23:24:00.002-04:00

NaNoWriMo Day #3

Not a lot of time to write today, thanks to my other job (domestic crisis management) and my voice fading in and out (the Dragon does not translate raspy/whispered words too well.) When I did get to the page I also had some unanticipated trouble with switching POVs. For some reason I couldn't get into this particular character's head. It might be because the POV the novel starts in, which is a pretty powerful one. Sometimes I find the POV of a strong character can overwhelm all the others.

I'm going to stick to my plan for right now, brood about this second character and see what happens tomorrow, but if I run into the same problem again I might have to rethink my story strategy.

Today's Stats:
Wordcount: 593
Pages: 3
Time: 6:30am-7:00am, 4:30pm-5:30pm
Sessions: 1 @ 30 minutes; 1 @ 1 hour

2010-11-02T23:55:00.003-04:00

NaNoWriMo Day #2

I got a very late start today; I had to see my dentist first thing this morning about some mystery pain in my face that kept me up all night.

What I thought might be a budding root canal turned out to be muscle strain, evidently from clenching my jaw too hard and too often over the last couple of weeks. Must have been that last contract negotiation. Or my last shopping trip with the high school kid.

For some reason being exhausted and frazzled doesn't make me a great writer, so I didn't push it when I got home. I wrote when I felt like writing, and rested when I didn't. I dislike writing like that, a few minutes at a time, but I actually racked up a pretty decent count for the day.

Today's Stats:
Wordcount: 2,494
Pages: 13
Time: 11:00am-5:30pm
Sessions: Sporadic with many long breaks.

2010-11-01T22:11:00.002-04:00

NaNoWriMo Day #1

I had a doctor's appointment this morning that required some prep, so I only got down about 600 words during my early morning session. I did a little better this afternoon with another 2K. The toughest part was falling back into the rhythms of writing in third person; after spending the last month writing two books in first it felt a little weird.

I love the story, and it was fun coming out of the starting gate. At the same time, I feel like I have to keep this one on a tight leash and avoid the temptation to to over-write or over-think it. It's very clear right now, and I'd like it to stay that way.

Today's Stats:
Wordcount: 2,607
Pages: 15
Time: 6:30am-7:30am, 11:00am-2:30pm
Sessions: 1 @ 1 hour; 1 @ 3 hours + 30 minute break.

2010-10-16T00:00:00.001-04:00

The Inheritance
a story idea by Lynn Viehl

“Lunch.” I handed my co-worker, Lucy, a wrapped sandwich. At her hurt look, I added, “It’s an all-veggie pita with no-fat dressing.”

“I love you. If you weren’t a girl, I’d have your babies.” She stopped to rip paper and take a huge bite before taste-bliss made her lashes droop. “Oh, God. Maybe we could adopt.”

Lucy had been dieting since high school; I knew because we’d been best friends since the first day of freshman year. I never kept any secrets from her, either, which was making it tough to decide what to tell her about my luncheon appointment.

“So?” She took a bottle of protein water from her bag. “What happened at the bank?”

“Nothing much.” I sat down in the client chair next to her desk and eyed the scuff mark on one side of my right shoe. “Anyone call?”

In mid-chug, Lucy nodded and passed me a small stack of message slips. Because she was the world’s finest receptionist, they were all neatly and beautifully written, and because I was the head of Accounts Receivable, I’d have to call them back.

“You look like someone just kicked your dog,” she told me after she swallowed. “What’s nothing much?”

“It’s just a family thing.” I sorted through the slips, shuffling them according to accounts and making some predictions about what they wanted to tell me. “No money, no money, probably filing Chapter Eleven, no money . . .” I came to one from the bank officer I’d just seen. “Oh.”

“He needs you to fax him a copy of your birth certificate.” Lucy balled up the empty sandwich wrapper, expertly tossing it into the garbage can in the corner of her cubicle before she gave me the eye. “You gonna tell me, or do I have to spread a rumor about you having the hots for Dale Bilmer in Collections?”

“Dale Bilmer is sixty-two.”

She nodded. “And still single. And looks upon you with lust simmering in his pacemaker.”

I wanted to laugh, but I was too depressed. “I’ve inherited something.”

Lucy leaned close. “Something like what?”

“A French chateau.”

“A what?” Lucy whooped, jumped up and dragged me to my feet before she danced me around. “You’re rich, you’re rich, you’re rich!”

I let her spin me a few more times before I stopped her. “I’m not rich.”

“Oh, sure.” She laughed. “You’re so poor you own a chateau in France. Get out of town.”

“It’s not in France.” I eased out of her arms. “It’s in California.”

“Huh?” Now she looked perplexed. “What’s it doing there?”

“Someone moved it there.” I sat back down and gestured for her to do the same. “It’s in the mountains in the north part of the state.” I hesitated before I added, “I inherited a couple of mountains, too.”

My best friend grinned. “In California? Girl, trust me, you’re rich now. You’re so rich that you could—”

“I have to live there,” I told her, shutting her up instantly. “I mean, if I want the land and the money and stuff, I have to move to California and live in the house.”

“For how long?”

“A week.”

2010-02-22T00:00:00.002-05:00

An excerpt from Dream Called Time
the final StarDoc novel
by S.L. Viehl
to be released August 2010

To set up the scene: Senior Healer Squilyp and Dr. Cherijo Torin are in Medical Bay on the Jorenian ship The Sunlace. Cherijo, who woke up in Medical several days ago believing that she'd only been unconscious for a few hours, has since learned that an alien persona named Jarn has been occupying her body and living her life for the last five years.

“The ship will be landing on Joren within the hour. You are not leaving Medical until it does.” The Omorr handed me a stack of ceremonial garments. “If you feel well enough to get up, you can get dressed.”

“I’m not wearing this. I look ridiculous in Jorenian robes.” As I realized why he’d given them to me, I dropped them on the berth. “Oh, no. You didn’t tell them I woke up.”

“The captain signaled the planet before we transitioned. The entire HouseClan has assembled to celebrate your return. You are supposed to be surprised by this.” He didn’t smirk or even sound amused. “There are others waiting on planet who also wish to meet with you.”

Uh-oh. “What others?”

“A diplomatic party from Vtaga. That is all Xonea told me,” he added, before I could ask. “I will send a nurse to obtain some garments from your, ah, from Reever’s quarters.” He gave me a sympathetic look before he hopped out.

I thought about using the isolation room terminal to signal Command and tell Xonea what I thought of his surprise party, but I was too busy trying to understand why an entourage of Hsktskt had been allowed on planet.

The last time the Faction had sent its representatives to Joren, it had been strictly for the purposes of invading it, stripping it of its resources, and enslaving the populace. I’d traded Shropana and an entire fleet of League ships to stop that from happening. Thanks to Reever’s own devious machinations, I’d also been enslaved myself, although eventually I’d freed myself and the League prisoners, and destroyed the Hsktskt slave depot on Catopsa in the process.

But that was no longer the status quo, as I knew from accessing Xonea’s secured files. Jarn had helped end the war between the League and the Faction, and then she’d cured a devastating plague on the Hsktskt homeworld. She’d even convinced the lizards to revoke the blood bounty they’d put on my head after I’d destroyed their flesh-peddling prison outpost.

“If I’m supposed to feel grateful for what she did,” I muttered, “everyone is going to be very disappointed.”

The nurse showed up with fresh garments, none of which I recognized. “Do you need assistance, Healer?”

“No, thanks.” I shook out the tunic and trousers, both of which were in a shade of ivory that I never wore. The material smelled of unfamiliar organics: transfer from a musky plant or herb. Maybe it was some sort of perfume the slave girl had worn to make herself smell nice.

Had she done it for Reever? What else had she done for him? Was that how she had stolen him from me? With some weird alien sex?

A complicated, strapped contraption fell to the floor, and I picked it up. It didn’t belong to me. “What’s this?”

“It was left folded atop your undergarments,” the nurse said. “I assumed it belonged to you.”

“Why would I need all these straps?” It must have been Jarn’s, but what kind of woman-hating culture had she come from, to have to bind herself up in something like this?

At second glance it didn’t look like a body rig; it was more like a harness to be strapped across the shoulders and chest. Odd pockets and flaps had been sewn in the straps, and when I opened one, I discovered it was a sheath for a small, smooth-hilted blade.

I took out the dagger and examined it. “This looks like a weapon.” I checked the other pockets, which held a variety of other knives—twenty in all. “Jesus Christ. What is this thing?”

The nurse smiled uneasily. “I would say it is a blade harness, Healer.”

“I’m a physician,” I pointed out. “We don’t use weapons. We clean up the mess they make.”

“The harness belonged to Jarn,” Reever said as he came into the room. He turned to the nurse. “Would you excuse us, please?”

“As you wish, Linguist. Healer.” The nurse practically ran out of the room.

“Hello, Duncan.” I took out one of the slave girl’s longer daggers and held it up to the light. “Omorr-forged, perfectly balanced.” I didn’t have to test the edge, which bore marks indicating it had been honed down to a lethal sharpness that would cut like a lascalpel. “This looks like one of yours.”

“I gave it to Jarn when peace was declared.” He seemed more interested in me now than he had in the environome. “She attended the injured and dying on battlefields. She was trained to carry weapons to defend herself.”

“Considering what a lethal threat injured, dying rebels can be, that’s completely understandable.” I sheathed the dagger and dropped the contraption like the trash it was. “What do you want? Your knives back?” I kicked the harness across the deck to him. “There you go.”

He bent over to retrieve the harness and slung it over his shoulder. “I did not come here to provoke you.”

“Too late.” I showed him some teeth. “And I’m sorry to disappoint you, but Jarn’s still dead, and I’m not.” I turned my back on him. “You know your way out.”

He didn’t go. “We should talk.”

“Oh, now we should talk,” I said to the berth. “Not when I woke up out of a five-year walking coma. Not when I found out how long I’d been gone. Not when I went looking for my husband and he treated me like a Tingalean leper in active contagion-molt. Certainly not at any time over the past thirty-six hours that I spent alone in my new quarters waiting for him to drop by and reassure me that despite his behavior he was happy I’d come back. I can see how those would have been totally inappropriate moments to have a conversation.”

“I needed time to accept Jarn’s loss.” He moved a little closer. “But now I see that it was wrong of me to make you wait and suffer in solitude as I have. I apologize for my actions.”

Jarn’s loss. Not mine. Had he ever grieved like that for me? Why did he care now if I suffered or not?

Silently I counted to ten, thinking the entire time that it was a damn good thing he was holding that knife harness and not me.

2010-01-10T01:34:00.001-05:00

2009-11-30T23:45:00.000-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #30

Today's Stats:

Wordcount: 435
Total Wordcount: 59689
Pages: 2
Total Pages: 279
Time: 11:00 pm - 11:30 pm
Sessions: 1 @ 30 minutes

--and that's a wrap for this year's NaNoWriMo. Congratulations to all the other NaNo'ers out there!

2009-11-29T23:42:00.001-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #29

Today's Stats:

Wordcount: 293
Total Wordcount: 59254
Pages: 2
Total Pages: 277
Time: 11:00 pm - 11:30 pm
Sessions: 1 @ 30 minutes

2009-11-28T23:45:00.000-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #28

Today's Stats:

Wordcount: 394
Total Wordcount: 58961
Pages: 2
Total Pages: 275
Time: 11:00 pm - 11:30 pm
Sessions: 1 @ 30 minutes

2009-11-27T23:45:00.001-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #27

Today's Stats:

Wordcount: 1659
Total Wordcount: 58567
Pages: 8
Total Pages: 273
Time: 10:00 pm - 11:00 pm
Sessions: 1 @ 1 hour

2009-11-26T23:45:00.000-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #26

Today's Stats:

Wordcount: 139
Total Wordcount: 56908
Pages: 1
Total Pages: 265
Time: 11:00 pm - 11:20 pm
Sessions: 1 @ 20 minutes

2009-11-25T10:36:00.001-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #25

Today's Stats:

Wordcount: 1240
Total Wordcount: 56769
Pages: 7
Total Pages: 264
Time: 8:00 am - 10:00 am
Sessions: 1 @ 2 hours, no breaks

2009-11-24T13:45:00.001-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #24

Today's Stats:

Wordcount: 1339
Total Wordcount: 55529
Pages: 6
Total Pages: 257
Time: 5:00 am - 7:00 am
Sessions: 1 @ 2 hours, no breaks

2009-11-23T08:52:00.000-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #23

Today's Stats:

Wordcount: 3211
Total Wordcount: 54190
Pages: 14
Total Pages: 251
Time: 5:00 am - 8:30 am
Sessions: 1 @ 3 hours with three ten-minute hourly breaks

2009-11-22T13:55:00.003-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #22

Since I've hit my goal of 50K I'm going to shift around my WIPs now and spend more time with the contract work. I still plan to keep working on this, so I'll keep posting my wordcounts until the end of November.

Today's Stats:

Wordcount: 966
Total Wordcount: 50979
Pages: 5
Total Pages: 237
Time: 8:00 am - 9:00 am
Sessions: 1 @ 1 hour, no breaks

2009-11-21T11:11:00.002-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #21

Passed 50,000 words just a few minutes ago -- I did it!

Today's Stats:

Wordcount: 1976
Total Wordcount: 50013
Pages: 10
Total Pages: 232
Time: 9:00 am - 11:00 am
Sessions: 1 @ 2 hours, no break

2009-11-20T20:29:00.003-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #20

My work & family schedules were pretty tight today, so I did one extended writing session this morning versus the usual two. I thought I'd try to work in another this afternoon, but an emergency job came in so that didn't happen.

Story-lengthwise I've hit the middle of the novel, and sticking faithfully to the outline so the running threads don't thin or start sagging. Two of the minor characters performed according to spec, but a third decided to get mouthy on the page and I've marked that scene for a complete rewrite once the novel is finished.

Things are rolling along pretty well, I think. Once I hit the 50K mark I'll begin the conflict transition from building to resolving. That's when the intensity will be the thing I have to watch -- like Jenga, exciting to play with but easy to cause to collapse.

Today's Stats:

Wordcount: 2227
Total Wordcount: 48037
Pages: 10
Total Pages: 222
Time: 8:00 am - 11:00 am
Sessions: 1 @ 3 hours, no break

2009-11-19T12:15:00.003-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #19

Not as much fun as yesterday, but it was another good, solid writing day. I'm off to take one of the progeny to the orthodontist now.

Today's Stats:

Wordcount: 2682
Total Wordcount: 45810
Pages: 12
Total Pages: 212
Time: 8:00 am - 10:00 am, 10:30 am - 12:30 pm
Sessions: 2 @ 2 hours with 30 minute break in between

2009-11-18T17:42:00.003-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #18

What a great writing day.

I held onto him until I found my balance and smiled up at him. “Why would I run away from you?”

“You hate me,” he said. “You want me dead. If I walked in front of your convy, you’d run me down in the street.”

“Is that what you think?”

“It’s what you’ve said you’d do,” he reminded me, “along with shoving a spell scroll down my throat, using a rusted blade to relieve of my manhood, setting my carriage alight with me locked in it, and oh, yes, my personal favorite, hiring a thug to toss me over my own cliffs.”

“Lucien, Lucien.” I kept beaming as I stroked my hand up his arm and curled it around his neck. “Have you no understanding of women?”

“Evidently not.”

“Let me show you what I’ve always dreamed of doing to you.” I pulled his head down toward mine, and as soon as his eyelids drooped and his mouth parted I clutched his neck and rammed my knee into his groin.

It was like that all morning. I love writing pissed-off women. :)

Today's Stats:

Wordcount: 3100
Total Wordcount: 43128
Pages: 13
Total Pages: 200
Time: 8:00 am - 12:30 pm
Sessions: 2 @ 2 hours with 30 minute break in between

2009-11-17T13:48:00.002-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #17

Just this: got my game back. :)

Today's Stats:

Wordcount: 3435
Total Wordcount: 40028
Pages: 17
Total Pages: 187
Time: 8:00 am - 11:00 am, 12:30 pm - 1:30 pm
Sessions: 2 -- 1 @ 3 hours; 1 @ 1 hour; 90 minute break in between

2009-11-16T22:39:00.002-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #16

I had a minor domestic crisis derail me today, and didn't get much more time to write than ten or twenty minutes here and there this morning. It's frustrating because toward the end I felt like I was really starting to roll again.

Lots of little details had to be dealt with in today's pages, and during my editing session tonight I decided I wasn't happy with one transition and marked that for a full rethink/rewrite once the book is done. When I have big chunks that make me unhappy I'd rather wait until the end to tackle them because I'm too close to them on the first edit; I do a better revision once I've had a few weeks away from the problem.

When my progress is slow like I don't feel like I'm accomplishing anything, but I was happy to count up ten finished pages tonight. Only felt like I wrote two or three, to be honest. But tomorrow I should have the house to myself, and I'm planning on immersing myself in the NaNoNovel for the entire morning. I need a good four or five hours of steady work to get back where my head was last week.

Today's Stats:

Wordcount: 2174
Total Wordcount: 36593
Pages: 10
Total Pages: 170
Time: (untimed)
Sessions: Sporadic

2009-11-15T19:13:00.003-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #15

I wish I had something more significant to write, this being the mid-way point of NaNoWriMo, but I'm still trying to get back on track and straighten out my head. So I didn't push too hard today, and split up my sessions with a long break so I could get some much-needed mental down time. My daughter and I went to see a friend's play and it helped. I love the theatre, and I'm always amazed at how effortless actors make it look.

We stopped to buy some flowers to give to our friend after the performance, and I found these lovely sunset-colored orange roses that were almost as big as my fist (my daughter went for the more traditional reds.) I wish I'd taken a photo of them, they had so many glorious colors in their petals. I'm definitely using them in my NaNoNovel, though -- they want to be written about.

And that's all for the mid-way point entry. I'm off to do some housework and clean my way through the blues.

Today's Stats:

Wordcount: 2357
Total Wordcount: 34419
Pages: 11
Total Pages: 160
Time: 11:00 am - 1:00 pm, 5:00 pm - 7:00 pm
Sessions: 2 @ 2 hours with four hour break in between

2009-11-14T00:00:00.002-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #14

No notes today, other than one to myself: stop analyzing and thinking about non-writing stuff and get back to writing. But here are:

Today's Stats:

Wordcount: 2049
Total Wordcount: 32062
Pages: 10
Total Pages: 149
Time: (untimed)
Sessions: Sporadic

2009-11-13T13:19:00.003-05:00

An Excerpt from [Untitled]
A NaNoWriMo Novel
by Lynn Viehl

Before I could reach the thoroughfare and hail a cab, a large, gleaming carriage drawn by four magnificent grays cut me off. I would have gone around it, but for the silver fist-and-pike crest on the door.

Of course, it would be him.

Shadows shrouded the inside of the carriage and the man who said, “Get in.”

The driver and the footman didn’t move from their positions; I wasn’t worth the trouble. So I unlatched the door and boosted myself up inside.

The interior was, like the carriage and the horses and the servant’s livery, a dismal gray. I perched on the rear-facing bench, taking the time to arrange my shirts and satchel before I looked out the window.

“Trolling on the Hill now, are we?” I asked the scenery. “What’s the matter, didn’t your last spell for the governor provide the promised amount of dazzle?”

No answer came, not that I expected one from Dredmore.

No, Lucien Dredmore, the former Lord Travellian, mentalist, shadowmage and current acknowledged Grand Master of the Dark Arts in the whole of Toriana, simply scratched a match and lit a thin black cigar clamped between his strong white teeth. The flame briefly illuminated his craggy features but failed to find a reflection in his black eyes. Then he shook out the match and blew smoke in my face.

I coughed and banged my fist against the panel under the driver’s ass. “Getting out,” I called.

The carriage didn’t even slow.

Lucien puffed a few more times before he examined the tip of his cigar. “What were you doing at Farber’s, Charmaine?”

“Dusting the furniture.” I could be as obtuse as him. “Haven’t you heard? All the maids have gone on strike. Why, is Farber someone you haven’t yet fleeced?”

“Nolan Farber is a member of a very powerful financial consortium,” he advised me. “He does the fleecing.”

“Oh, so he’s your friend.” I sat back. “I think it’s fabulous that you still have one.”

“Nolan wouldn’t hire the likes of you,” he said, as if I weren’t there. “It would have been the daughter. Or the new wife.”

“I don’t discuss my business with thieves and liars,” I told him sweetly. “But I’d happily tell them all about it before I’d confide in scum like you.”

Accustomed as he was to my insults, Dredmore didn’t even bat an eyelash. “There’s a dark, dire force moving through the city, Charmaine. You’d be smart to stay clear of it.”

“A dark, dire force.” I laughed. “That’s good, Lucien, that’s very good. I will say one thing for you, your showmanship never disappoints.” I gave the panel one last thump. “Stop this rubbish cart now, or I’ll scream murder.”

He regarded me through the cloud of smoke between us. “You’d rather tromp all the way back to that hovel of yours than accept my assistance? Why get in, then?”

“The last time I didn’t,” I reminded him, “you had one of your thugs grab me and toss me in.” He’d gagged me that time, too, something I still wanted to stab him in the heart for.

He leaned forward. “Come to supper tonight.”

“No.” Short, unadorned, straight to the point – that was the only way to refuse Dredmore. That and the visible brandishment of one or more sharp weapons. I knew I shouldn’t have left my dagger at home.

“I felt something today,” he told me. “A disturbance. Old magic.” He stared at my lips. “It tasted of you.”

Now I was going to be sick, hopefully all over on his spotless trousers and gleaming boots. “There is no such thing as magic.”

“Then why do you rabbit about disenchanting things?” he countered.

“I investigate real crimes, and whenever possible, I expose the frauds involved in dressing them up as magic.” I waited a beat. “You know, leeches like you.”

“I will find out what you were doing at Farber’s.” He sat back. “Then you and I will have a very long discussion about the consequences for young females who are too headstrong and foolish to stay in their proper place.”

“Where’s that? Under a man? Under you?” I curled my upper lip. “You're pathetic.”

He reached out and clamped a black-gloved hand over my wrist. “You will come to me, Charmaine. Perhaps not now, but soon. The portents are never wrong.”

He did have the deepest, most commanding voice of any man I’d known. Sometimes I woke up in the middle of the night, covered in sweat, hearing the last echo of it humming my ears. If anyone could ever bespell me, it would be Lucien Dredmore.

No. I'd entertain a diseased copperhead first.

He dodged my fist and thrust me back, calling out, “Here, Connell.”

The carriage came to a swift stop.

I glanced out and saw I was back in town. “Thank you for the ride, Dredmore. Very decent of you.”

“Charmaine.” He watched me climb out.

2009-11-13T10:14:00.003-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #13

Got an early start this morning and decided to write through my frustrations. It mostly worked, although I'm still unsettled and tired. A residual headache from yesterday didn't help.

I was able to wrap up the last of the chapter I completely blew yesterday, resisted the urge to go back and look at the ruination, and moved on to the next chapter. I feel better about what I got today, although I'm still stuck outside the zone, and every word dragged.

I'm going to work on some other things for the rest of the day, meditate and see if I can rid myself of these negative feelings. I don't want to spend another minute trying to work with all this garbage weighing me down.

Today's Stats:

Wordcount: 2381
Total Wordcount: 30013
Pages: 11
Total Pages: 139
Time: 6:30 am - 10:00 am
Sessions: 1 @ 3-1/2 hours, no breaks

2009-11-12T19:00:00.003-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #12

Publishing got in my writing space today (technically it started late yesterday, after I posted my stats.) I can't go into details without bashing my head repeatedly into the monitor, but the enormous, unnecessary amount of stress the parties involved dumped on me pretty much derailed my routine and my schedule. I didn't even bother to keep work notes or time myself. Which is why it is a very good thing to do whatever you can to kick Publishing out of your writing space.

I wrote when I could, and I haven't looked at it but I'm pretty sure it's all garbage that I'll delete and write over after I'm done the book. Probably the worst writing day I've had since March, which by no small coincidence was the last time I let Publishing get into my writing space.

Today's Stats:

Wordcount: 2460
Total Wordcount: 27632
Pages: 12
Total Pages: 128
Time: (untimed)
Sessions: Sporadic

2009-11-11T12:34:00.002-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #11

Done with the first quarter of the novel. Also past the midway point for my 50K NaNo goal. Unless I get several more rush days where I knock out a lot more words, I'll probably ended up with 65K - 70K for the month, and need another week in December to finish up the book .

I'm tempted to up my daily quota to finish out the month with 100K and a completed novel, but I don't want to head into the holidays with the accompanying mental exhaustion. Also, because I plan to take a long weekend break from my NaNo writing schedule for Thanksgiving, I'm probably going to write over quota for the next week or so anyway to buy those days off.

Had two good solid sessions today. One scene between my protag and a secondary character produced some great dialogue that flowed onto the page. If only I could get descriptive passages to be so liquid and effortless.

Today's Stats:

Wordcount: 2888
Total Wordcount: 25172
Pages: 11
Total Pages: 116
Time: 7:00 am - 11:30 am
Sessions: 2 @ 2 hours with a 30 minute break in between

2009-11-10T11:30:00.002-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #10

I wish all my NaNo sessions were like today's; I was able to get an earlier start and accomplish about double the work (thanks in part to my guy pitching in and making my morning school runs for me.) Passing the hundred-page mark is always a good feeling, too.

Since I also finished early, I decided to do my type-ins from the printed manuscript, which I've been editing by hand every night. I need to do a glossary update tomorrow and correct the outline where I've made some minor changes. Still working on a warfare timeline.

The toughest thing to do when I have a really productive session is to make myself stop at an appropriate point. I'd happily lock the door and write straight through the day, but my voice wouldn't be worth a damn tomorrow. Plus I'm coming up on a series of very tough scenes that I'd like to take my time with. So while I hate putting on the brakes, I know it's good for me in the long term.

Today's Stats:

Wordcount: 3749
Total Wordcount: 22284
Pages: 18
Total Pages: 105
Time: 6:00 am - 11:30 pm
Sessions: 2 @ 2 hours with a 30 minute break in between; 1 hour doing type-in corrections from last week's edits.

2009-11-09T12:40:00.003-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #9

Slow getting back to work today after my two days off, but I wrote up about 5 pages of notes over the weekend for this week's sessions, and I thought a lot about what I want to do in the chapters I'll be writing. One reason I prefer to write at least something every day (notes don't count) is because I do have to work to get back my rhythm, like today.

After a couple hours of plodding through every word and really getting nothing on the page, I finally wrote through the downtime blues, knocked out one scene and started another before my sprint ended. I would have liked to have written more words today, but for most of the first session I didn't even think I was going to make quota, so I'll be happy with my 2511.

I came up with the names I'm going to use for my opposing forces in the story, and introduced them today in a logical spot, although I may move them up earlier to the catalyst scene. Not sure. More thinking to do on that. I'd like to sketch the hallmarks of both groups as interpreted symbols, maybe a loose interpretation of their names. I also need to work out a concrete warfare history timeline for this world before I end up citing nine hundred different skirmishes with only a vague idea of what order they happened in.

Today's Stats:

Wordcount: 2511
Total Wordcount: 18535
Pages: 12
Total Pages: 87
Time: 7:15 am - 12:30 pm
Sessions: 1 @ 2 hours 15 minutes with frequent/untimed breaks, then 3 @ 50 minutes with ten minute breaks every hour.

2009-11-06T23:00:00.001-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #6

Today I had a domestic crisis interrupt my writing life; one of the motor mounts on the engine popped its cap, and as the part was still under warranty I had to take it over to the shop to have it replaced. Then my guy and I decided to look at something I'm not going to write here in case my kids are reading this (you'll just have to wait until Christmas, you nosy little darlings.) Then I had to come home, review contracts, put together packages, talk to Mom, get ready for a school function, etc. etc. so the day simply evaporated on me.

I did pop into the office whenever I had time to spare to write in between all this stuff. It took all day and some of tonight, but I managed to knock out my goal wordcount. What I wrote was fairly sketchy (I don't write by voice well in short snatches) but I got some good dialogue out of it and one interesting bit of world-building. I did not try to edit at all; I'll do that over the weekend.

I'm getting spoiled in my old age, wallowing in hours and hours alone during the day to write. Today reminded me of how I started out when I got serious about the work, when I had to write everything very fast in between naps or after the kids were down for the night. I am really lucky now to have four or five hours a day to work uninterrupted.

Today's Stats:

Wordcount: 2100
Total Wordcount: 16024
Pages: 8
Total Pages: 75
Time: Various
Sessions: Several in 10 and 20 minute bursts (I didn't count them or time them); wrote a bit here and there throughout the day whenever I could get on the computer.

2009-11-05T13:10:00.002-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #5

Is there anything like the moment when the Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know character steps foot on the story stage? I don't think so. Had a bonfide blast writing that scene today. Grinned the entire time. Whoopee!

(I know I should analyze it further and nitpick what I did wrong, but too happy. I think I'll just go and bask in the glow.)

Tomorrow I just have to knock out quota + 76 words and I've bought myself the weekend off. The tough thing is going to be staying away from the manuscript for two days. :)

Today's Stats:

Wordcount: 2899
Total Wordcount: 13924
Pages: 15
Total Pages: 67
Time: 8:00am -- 12:30pm
Sessions: 2 @ 2 hours + 30 minute break in between.

2009-11-04T16:18:00.004-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #4

I hit a zone today with my NaNoNovel, and opportunistic wretch that I am, I wrote straight through it (I did take a 15 minute break every hour to get up, stretch, walk me and the pup a few times and rest my voice.) I rode the rush and stopped only when the alarm went off for school pick-up. I love writing days like this.

My protagonist is coming along nicely, but I did move part of a scene up one chapter from plan because it needed to happen sooner; at least half of it did. I notice I'm skimping on some physical descriptions again, but I think I thoroughly nailed the setting and the additional cast members that I introduced today. It's always easier to describe people and places I despise.

This puts me ahead of schedule. If I can knock out quota + 500 extra words tomorrow and Friday, I will have bought myself the weekend off. Which I need; lots to mull over before all hell breaks loose in the story next week.

Today's Stats:

Wordcount: 3439
Total Wordcount: 11025
Pages: 14
Total Pages: 52
Time: 8:00am -- 1:00pm
Sessions: 1 @ 4 hours + four 15 minute breaks every hour.

2009-11-03T16:41:00.003-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #3

My late start today was due to the time I spent this morning notifying a bunch of colleagues about pirated books of theirs I found on a site that had also bootlegged mine. The jackass responsible for distributing illegal copies of my books had also posted pirated copies of 1000+ titles by other authors, so I felt I had to do something about it. Fortunately I was able to cut-and-paste most of the e-mails involved or I would have run out of voice in a hurry.

Getting to work late made me grumpy, but the scene I worked on was interesting enough to dispel my bad mood. I introduced two support characters who were fun to write, and got a nice flow on the dialogue. Another week with this story and I should be able to start thinking in this new voice. For now it's still a little too new. Trying on new genres and voices is like breaking in a pair of new shoes, you really have to wear them every day to work out the stiffness.

I went over my quota again because I'd like to buy the weekend off to go to a play and a fair with the kids. I need an extra 4K by Friday to take a two-day break and I'm about a third of the way there. Pretty sure I can do it. Tomorrow I'll wrap up Chapter Two and get started on Chapter Three. Looking forward to the next scene, in which both the antagonist and the love interest make an appearance.

Today's Stats:

Wordcount: 2618
Total Wordcount: 7586
Pages: 14
Total Pages: 38
Time: 10:30am -- 2:00pm
Sessions: 2 @ 1 hour 15 minutes each + 30 minute break in between.

2009-11-02T13:14:00.003-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #2

Knocked out two scenes today and got a nice upstairs/downstairs spin on my protag's place of business. The genre and time period make writing the dialogue the biggest challenge, but I'm gradually getting comfortable with it. I'm glad I deliberately avoided reading any contemporary examples in this genre, I wanted to build this from scratch and I like what I'm getting.

My Achilles heel, as always, is describing things. I did better with that in the second scene; there was a lot of interesting things going on. I need to add more color and sensory bits to the first scene, and figure out what one of the two characters in it looks like. Right now she's just a pair of silk gloves with lace trim -- definitely not enough to give the reader a visual.

I think I'm going to start work with this story every day until NaNo ends; I like the rejuvenating effects of writing in the new universe before I move on to the stories I'm writing in the established series. I've earned my lunch, so I'm off to see what sort of salad I can build out of what's still fresh in the veggie bin.

Today's Stats:

Wordcount: 2233
Total Wordcount: 4968
Pages: 10
Total Pages: 24
Time: 9:00am -- 1:00pm
Sessions: 2 @ 1 hour 45 minutes each + 30 minute break in between.

2009-11-01T14:39:00.000-05:00

NaNoWriMo Day #1

We had a friend staying over so I started out late this morning, but once I got the story rolling it seemed to go pretty smooth. I came up with a semi-decent first line: The man who had just saved my life wanted to kill me. and then went from there.

I took my time with this one because it's an experiment in voice, genre and style for me. I was tempted to go for an even three thousand words, but I have three thousand more to write for other books today so I made myself stop. I went ahead, printed out a hard copy and did the editing right after my second writing session because I had a couple of corrections in my head that I wanted to get down before I lost them.

I'm fairly satisfied with what I got for the first draft, although I have to watch the backstory with this one; it's fairly extensive and already wants to eat my book. I'm also not 100% committed to the narrative I'm using to open Chapter One; I think coming off the last StarDoc has me with some residual Cherijo in my head because it reminds me of her a little. I also decided to start keeping a glossary for the coined words.

Today's Stats:
Wordcount: 2,735
Pages: 14
Time: 10:00am -- 2:00pm
Sessions: 2 @ 1 hour 45 minutes each + 30 minute break in between.

2009-10-02T03:00:00.000-04:00

An Excerpt from Rain Lashed
a novella of the Kyndred
by Lynn Viehl

As I lay on my couch in the muffled night, and the rain lashed my window,
And my forsaken heart would give me no rest, no pause and no peace,
Thought I turned my face far from the wailing of my bereavement….
Then I said: I will eat of this sorrow to its last shred,
I will take it unto me utterly,
I will see if I be not strong enough to contain it…
—Tasting the Earth, James Oppenheim

September 29, 2004
Atlanta, Georgia

After the funeral Angela Witt drove back to the house to change out of her black dress. Fred Morgan, her mother’s attorney, followed her from the cemetery, and parked his SUV at the curb before he walked up to the porch. The real estate agent, a blowsy blond with the improbable name of Sugar Wilcox, was already waiting there with a sheriff’s deputy, the attorney for the archdiocese, and a briefcase filled with legal documents.

Behind the house, the rain clouds that had threatened to ruin Ruth Witt’s funeral hovered, swollen and gray-black, popping with white veins of lightning. Whenever the skies turned dark Ruth would order her to close the blinds and draw the curtains. There was no question of Angela going out into the rain, of course. According to her mother, only fools and beggars chanced God’s wrath.

Angela loved storms, which made her a fool. And now, a beggar.

Sugar tried to speak to her as she passed, but the woman’s voice made as much sense as the gravely-intoned prayers the priest had recited over Ruth Witt’s coffin.

“She’s going to be trouble,” Angela heard Sugar prophesize to Fred Morgan. “You should have taken her to a motel.”

“She can’t afford one,” Morgan replied.

Angela went back to the bedroom that was no longer hers, and after locking the door stripped out of her black dress. She left it where it dropped on the floor and went to the closet to take out her favorite jeans and a dark blue T-shirt. Mother had insisted she always wear dresses or a skirt and blouse at home, but Mother was in Heaven now and couldn’t say anything about how she dressed.

“Angela.” Fred’s low voice, just outside her door, sounded strained. “Angela, we need to talk.”

She ignored him as she dressed, wondering if he or Sugar or the church’s attorney would have the deputy break down the door and drag her out half-naked to throw her into the street. She was – technically speaking – trespassing. But she only had one thing left to do after this, and she’d rather risk being hauled out like the trash than have to wear that awful, hot black dress for the rest of the day.

Thunder rumbled, close enough to rattle the window panes.

“If you’d like some time alone I can speak to Ms. Wilcox—“ Fred stopped and shuffled back as Angela opened the door. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

“She’d mind.” Angela passed him to go into the living room where she didn’t live, where Sugar and the attorney were waiting for her.

“Miss Witt.” Sugar had her syrupy smile and a handful of court papers ready. “As I tried to tell you on the phone, you can’t stay here.”

“We’re very sorry for your loss, Ms. Witt,” the church’s attorney said. “But the disposition of your mother’s estate—”

Why did they keep talking to her, these people? Angela brushed past them both and came up to the deputy barring the front door. He had an impressive-looking gun buckled to his left hip, and for a moment she saw herself snatching it out of its holster. That would shut up Sugar and her mouthpiece for sure.

“Excuse me,” she said politely.

The deputy studied her face and then stepped out of her way. Angela walked outside, climbed down the steps and went to her car.

“You can’t take the Olds, Miss Witt.” Sugar followed, the high heels of her pumps forcing her to trot like a small dog on a short leash. When Angela didn’t stop, she grew shrill. “You best hand those keys over, girl, or I’ll have you arrested for grand theft auto!”

The church attorney shushed her. “Miss Witt, as Mr. Morgan has doubtless explained, the car is part of the estate, and as such, now belongs to the archdiocese.”

Angela opened the door, reached in, and took out her purse. She pulled out her keys as Sugar reached her.

“You give me those keys.” She tried to grab them, and then made a squeaky sound as Angela held them out of reach. “Right this minute.”

Lightning flashed, striking a block away and making Sugar shriek and cower.

“You want them?” Angela turned and threw them over the fence into the next yard, where her neighbor’s two pit bulls began barking. “Go get them.”

Sugar began demanding the deputy arrest her. Angela walked down the drive to the sidewalk, where a small group of her mother’s neighbors had gathered to watch the festivities. Mrs. Hadrian, an ancient old lady who liked to play bingo and power-walk, gave Angela a painful smile.

“You want to come over my place and wait out this storm, honey?” she asked. “I got some coffee and Danish left over from breakfast.”

“No, thank you, ma’am.” Angela nodded politely to the rest of the wide-eyed neighbors before she moved on.

Fred Morgan caught up with her at the corner, where he stopped his SUV and rolled down the passenger window to speak with her. “Angela, please. Get in and I’ll give you a ride.”

“No, thank you, sir.” Angela wished the traffic would ease up so she could cross and get to the bus stop before the rain came down.

Fred didn’t give up. “Your mother wouldn’t have wanted it to be like this.”

“I can’t agree. This is exactly what she wanted.” Angela crossed the street just as the skies opened up and the first big, cool drops pelted her. She would have danced in the street under the grim clouds, her arms out, inviting God to smite her with one of his terrible bolts and save her a trip, but she was pretty sure all that would do was soak her clothes and get her hit by a car.

Fred found somewhere to park and came at her again as she waited under the Plexiglas roof covering the bus stop. “At least let me give a loan.”

She eyed the wallet he’d taken out and then looked up at his face. He was rain-splattered, sweating, desperate to be gone. As much as she disliked him, he was trying to be kind in his own fashion. “I won’t need your money, sir, but thank you.”

“You’re homeless. You don’t have a job. Your mother was your only living relative.” Fred tried to thrust some damp bills into her hand. “For God’ sake, Angela. Take it.”

The bus was coming, Angela saw, and stood, stepping out to the curb so that the driver saw her. The big vehicle’s breaks squealed a little as it came to a stop.

“Angela!”

She glanced back at Fred and the money she'd dropped; he was crouched over picking it out of a puddle. She would always remember him like that. “Good-bye, Mr. Morgan.”

She had just enough change in her pocket to pay the fare downtown. On the ride there, she sat next to an old white lady in a sweater that smelled like a wet dog, and across from a black teenager with a wilted Mohawk dyed hot pink. Both paid no mind to her, so she was able to think.

Mother had been terribly worried about dying. For a lifelong Catholic who had gone to mass three times a week, the old woman and her rock-solid faith had started crumbling from the day she’d been diagnosed with cancer. A year of suffering with daily, ever-increasing pain had not destroyed her mother’s beliefs, but it had altered her opinion of herself. She developed a notion that she was being punished, and now Angela knew what she had done to make her penance. Leaving her entire estate to the church was Ruth Witt’s way of asking for forgiveness. Or perhaps offering the Lord a final bribe to let her past the pearly gates.

Ruth had never mentioned a word about her intentions to her daughter, who had spent the last seven years taking care of her. Even the letter she had left with Fred Morgan for Angela had avoided the subject entirely.

When I’m gone, I want you to see to the house. All of my clothes should be put in those plastic bins I have stored in the attic. My jewelry is in the safety deposit box. Be sure when you’re cleaning the house that you throw away all the food in the refrigerator. I expect they will shut off the power soon enough and no one should have to abide that smell.

You’ve been a good girl, Angela Marie. Don’t forget to go to mass and say your prayers.
~Your Loving Mother, Ruth

It had been a shock to discover that just before her death her mother had actually sold the house and liquidated most of her assets in order for the money to be held in trust for the archdiocese. The church attorney had politely informed Angela of this over the telephone before he extended what he felt was a gracious invitation for Angela to stay in the house until her mother’s funeral, seeing as the archdiocese had no legal obligation to permit her to remain on the premises. “And please don’t remove anything from the home, Ms. Witt. The property and its contents are now church property.”

If slavery were still legal, Angela thought, her mother probably would have sold her into it to add a little more to the pot.

The bus reached the downtown area before the thunderstorm did, and Angela got off at Peachtree Street, where the tall building of her mother’s bank loomed. She’d gone there the day she’d discovered she was homeless and penniless, to see if she could arrange a loan until she found a job and another place to live. Ruth Witt had been one of the bank’s most important clients, but that hadn’t helped her. The bank officer had been sympathetic but adamant: without steady employment or some sort of collateral to insure the loan, the bank couldn’t lend Angela a dime.

She smiled a little as she remembered his final suggestion. Perhaps you could go to your church for help.

That night as she lay in the bed that was scheduled to be sold at auction in a week, Angela decided there was one way the bank could help her. Ruth had raised her to be Catholic, so what she contemplated doing made her feel terribly guilty, but she had to be practical. She had no money, no family, no friends, no home, no job, and no real education other than high school. She’d devoted her life to caring for her mother, and now that life was over. Under the circumstances, all she would be doing would be taking the next logical step. And in a dark, mean corner of her heart, she knew it would embarrass the bank as well as the church, something she wouldn’t mind doing at all.

Carl, the tall black man who was the nicest of the bank’s security guards, came over to Angela when she walked into the lobby.

“Afternoon, Ms. Witt.”

“Hey, Carl.” She made her mouth into a smile. “My mother asked me to bring by some papers for Mr. Robart. Is he here today?”

The guard sighed. “That man lives here, Ms. Witt. But why didn’t you come by later on in the week? Now that your mama is . . . “ he winced. “I never did have the chance to say how sorry I am that she passed. I been keeping you and that poor sweet lady in my prayers.”

“I do appreciate that, and I know Mother would, too.” She looked down at the shoes her mother had had dyed to match her dress. “I’m going away, so I should really go up to see Mr. Robart now.”

Most people at the bank had only been nice to her because of her mother’s money, but Carl always seemed sincere. As Angela walked back to the elevators, she wondered if the security guard would be upset after she did this. She knew how to do it so that no one else would see or get hurt, but it was still going to be an awful thing.

It wouldn’t hurt – the web site she’d found had promised her that if she did it properly that she wouldn’t feel a thing – but Angela hated the thought that Carl might be made to clean up the mess she was going to make.

He'll be careful with me. Real careful.

She got into the elevator, and shivered with nerves as she looked at the panel of buttons. She knew there was a rooftop access door on the top floor; she’d heard two air conditioning mechanics talking about it on an earlier visit. All she had to do was ride up, go through the access door, and walk to the edge of the roof.

Then she would solve all her problems with one final step.

2009-06-05T03:00:00.000-04:00

An Excerpt from Dreamveil
A Novel of the Kyndred
by Lynn Viehl

“So I do not salt the eggplant or the zucchini,” Bernard said, “or cook in separate pots. Chef, this is America, not Nice. Everything here, it is quick. No one could tell a difference.”

Jean-Marc Dansant turned away from his sous chef, mainly to keep from throttling him. “I could tell.”

“The fat woman no complain, or send it back. She no care.” Bernard threw out his hands in his favorite gesture, a combination of frustration and helplessness. “It was fine. The best . . . .” he paused as he groped for the correct English, but failed. “The best courgettes á la Niçoise I make.”

“Naturellement.” He removed his white jacket and tossed it in the laundry bin. “The problem, Bernard, is that she ordered ratatouille.”

“Je m’en fiche.” His sous chef stalked out of the back door. A few moments later the sound of squealing brakes and crashing metal came from the alley.

Dansant didn’t feel alarmed by the noise. No doubt his sous chef had knocked over the garbage bins with his car again. Bernard in a temper was nothing if not predictable. After inspecting the immaculate kitchen for the last time, Dansant shut off the light switches and went out into the alley to survey the mess.

He expected the smell of garbage, and the sight of it spread from one side of the alley to the other. He did not expect to see a motorcycle lying on the ground in front of Bernard’s Volvo, or his sous chef standing over a tall, skinny boy whose leather garments appeared badly scuffed. Then the biker removed his helmet, and under a mop of disheveled dark curls revealed the thin, furious face of a dark-eyed, pale young woman.

In profile she was all angular bone and creamy white skin; the stately line of her nose at odds with the decadent contours of her mouth and the stubborn set of her jaw.

“Bernard.” He spoke sharply to cut off the sous chef’s stream of obscenities in their native language.

His voice drew the girl’s attention for a moment, and he saw that her lashes were like her hair, black, thick and curly. They framed eyes that seemed too dark to be so bright. She stiffened as if bracing herself for more trouble, and then saw his face. Whatever she saw made her body change, and she shifted on her feet, moving as if she meant to come to him.

Dansant understood; the feelings rising inside him made nothing in that moment more important than going to her. “Did you knock her down?” he asked Bernard without looking at him.

“Non. She crash into my car.” He stabbed a finger at the motorcycle. “Look at the bumper, the grill. They are ruin.” He turned his finger on the girl. “You pay for this.”

Bernard had to repeat his demand for payment twice more before the girl heard him and turned to face him. “The hell I will. You shouldn’t be parked out here in the dark. It’s illegal and dangerous.”

Hearing her speak made Dansant’s situation worse. The girl’s low voice had a faint rasp to it, and brushed against his ears like silk cord. Silk, yes, that would suit her more than her boyish leather. He imagined wrapping her in yards of scarlet and gold, weaving it around the length of her torso, coiling it along her long limbs, knotting it so that her hands were bound to his, and everywhere he touched her she would feel twice, on her body and against her slim fingers . . . .

Never had he thought such things about a woman, Dansant thought, appalled. Not even with Gisele.

How could she do this to him, this girl? She’d barely glanced at him, and he was ready to grab her and drag her inside and lay her out on the closest flat surface.

He breathed in deeply, hoping the stench of the alley would clear his head, but smelled a familiar, coppery scent. At last he saw more than her eyes, her face. Her gloves were in shreds, and both of her knees showed, scratched and bloodied, through tears in her trousers.

Here she was hurt, in pain, and all he’d thought of was having her for his pleasure. He was no better than the idiot berating her.

“I work here,” Bernard was telling her. “I park here every night. Bah.” He pulled out his wallet and offered her an insurance card. “You give me yours.”

“I’m not responsible. Someone hit me from behind.” The girl ignored the card, hobbled slowly to where the motorcycle lay beside the car and crouched down. She ran her hand over one misshapen tire, then the other. “Damn it, they’re both blown.”

“Miss. Miss.” When she didn’t respond, Bernard stalked over to her. “We call the insurance; let them say who pay.”

She bent over to look under the car. “I don’t have any.”

His sous chef did the same. “What do you say?”

“Insurance.” She stood, bracing one hand against the hood of the Volvo to steady herself. “I don’t carry any on my bike.”

“So now I must pay for everything. Such convenience for you.” Bernard straightened and took out his mobile. “I call police now.”

“Wait a minute.” She gave Bernard her full attention. “There’s no need to get the police involved. We can work this out between the two of us.”

She tried to sound more amicable, but for the first time Dansant caught a glimpse of fear in her eyes, and moved quickly over to stand beside her.

“I am French,” Bernard informed her before Dansant could say a word. “No stupid. I know your game. You crash into my car on purpose, force me give you money.”

“No, Bernard,” Dansant told him. “Clearly it was an accident.” And if the man didn’t soon shut up, Dansant was almost certain he was going to beat him senseless.

His sous chef folded his arms. “She is scumming me.”

“Scamming,” she corrected. “And no, I’m not doing that. Look, this was an accident, that’s all. Why don’t we just call it even and walk away?”

“You ruin my car. You have no insurance. You are no walking away.” Bernard began to dial.

“Ta gueule.” Dansant took out his wallet, eyed the car, and removed a handful of hundreds, which he put in the sous chef’s soft hand. “This will pay for the damages, plus two weeks’ pay.”

“Chef.” Bernard frowned at the money. “I do not need my pay tonight.”

“Yes, you do. You’re fired. Good-bye, Bernard.” Dansant turned to the girl, who stared at him with visible disbelief. Over Bernard’s sputtering, he said, “You are hurt, but I can help you. Come with me.”

“I’ll be fine, thanks.” She seemed genuinely unconcerned about her injuries. “Who are you?”

“Jean-Marc Dansant. I own this restaurant. Come, mademoiselle.” He took her arm, and when she pulled back he gestured at her knees. “Look, there, you are bleeding. I have a first aid kit inside.”

“My name is Rowan.” She turned her head. “My bike—”

“It cannot be taken, not as it is now,” he assured her.

Rowan stared at the hand on her arm and then into his eyes. “Why are you doing this? You don’t know me.”

She is afraid – of me?

“Oui.” He didn’t have the words to tell her, not yet. Not when he didn’t understand what was pulling him to her. Whatever it was, he could not let it vanish into the night. He released her as he tried to think of something to say. “It is the kindness of a stranger, yes?”

“Not something I usually depend on.” Rowan looked down at herself and sighed. “But I do need to clean up.”

He clenched his teeth as images of his hands undressing her and washing her filled his mind. “Then come inside with me, please.” He offered her his hand this time, and after a long, silent moment, she took it.

“Jamais dans ma vie,” Bernard called after them as Dansant guided her through the kitchen door and into the restaurant. “You be sorry you fire me. I am best sous chef in—”

Fortunately the heavy steel door cut off the rest of what he shouted.

“Wait, please.” Dansant left her by the long prep table and retrieved the first aid kit from the dry storage room. When he returned she had stripped off her jacket and the shreds of her gloves, and was washing her hands at the rinsing sink beside the industrial dishwasher. Under a black T-shirt she wore a long-sleeved white thermal shirt, the cuffs of which were stained red with blood.

For the first time he realized how very tall she was – only an inch or two shorter than he was – and how perfectly her long body would fit to his. He’d never made love to a woman who matched him physically. Nor would he if he left her standing and bleeding in his kitchen while he indulged in such fantasies.

“Let me see,” he said as he put the kit on the sideboard.

“They’re not too bad. My gloves took the worst of it.” She showed him her grazed, reddened palms before looking down. “My knees are a mess, though.”

Dansant pulled an empty crate over by the table. “Sit here.”

She didn’t move. “Thanks, but I think I can do this by myself.”

Dansant removed some gauze pads and a small bottle of peroxide from the kit. “You are still shaken, ma mûre.”

She limped over to the crate and perched on it. “So are you usually this kind to strangers?” Before he could answer, she added, “I’m not going to sue, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

That she thought of herself as a stranger to him was perplexing. From the moment he’d seen her face, he’d known her. Not who she was, or why she had come to him now, but everything that mattered between a man and a woman. All he had to do was be patient, and wait for her to give herself over to him. Then he would show her what they were meant to be together.

Doesn’t she feel it?

“I do not worry about this.” He knelt before her to inspect the damage to her knees. “There is debris in the wounds. From the ground.” He would need scissors to cut away her trouser legs. “I must remove it.”

As soon as he put his hand on her leg, Rowan stiffened. “I don’t think so.”

He glanced up. “You do not like to be touched.”

“Oh, sometimes I like it fine.” She stared at his mouth before lifting her eyes to his, and he saw a glimmer of heat and longing. “It’s the stranger part I have trouble with.”

"So do I.” More than he could ever tell her. “Perhaps just for tonight, we should think we are friends.”

“Friends.” She seemed amused by this, but leaned back on her elbows. “All right, Dansant. Do whatever you want.”

2009-04-28T21:00:00.000-04:00

An Excerpt from Shadowlight
A novel of the Kyndred
by Lynn Viehl

Rowan left her bike under a tree by the pretty fountain in Price Park, and scanned the area. A couple of people with dogs were walking on the other side of the grounds, but she saw no one else. She checked her watch, and saw it was two minutes to noon.

“You’d better show, Drew,” she muttered, “or I’m going to be pissed at you forever.”

“What else is new?” a voice said from above.

Rowan tilted her head back and saw a man standing in the tree over her bike. “What are you doing up there, you idiot?”

“Maintaining cover, smartass.” He jumped, dropping down twelve feet before landing neatly beside her. “Were you followed?”

“Am I six years old?” she countered.

“No.” He looked her over. “Sixteen, maybe.”

“Twenty-one, and legal, thank you very much.” She shoved her spare helmet into his hands. “Hop on. We’ve got a lot road to cover.”

Something whizzed past her cheek and thunked against the tree. Two more things zipped past her nose before Drew knocked her to the ground.

Drew seized the back of her collar. “Keep your head down and crawl,” he said. “Behind the fountain. Move it.”

Rowan crawled, ducking again as more bullets hit the tree where she’d just been standing.

“I wasn’t followed,” she insisted as she got behind the fountain and huddled next to Drew. “They must have been tailing you.”

“If they’d spotted me,” he said, “I’d be already laying on a slab at GenHance.” He looked up as something pinged against the metal sculpture, and grinned. “Oh. We’re okay.”

Rowan stared at him. “We’re being shot at. We’re unarmed. We’re about to be killed or taken, or both. Probably both. We’re screwed, is what we are, Andrew.”

“Have faith, baby girl.” He lifted his head and looked toward the source of the shots before ducking down. “Do you have any pennies?”

“A couple thousand in a jar back home,” she snapped. “Tossing one in the fountain and making a wish will not make the bad guys go away. Just FYI.”

Drew shoved his hand into her hip pocket and pulled out a handful of change. He sorted out the silver and dropped it, curling his fingers over the remaining pennies.

“So your bike, is it pretty good on gas?” he asked in a conversational tone. “I’ve been thinking about getting one for years, but with gas prices the way they are, seems like the right time.”

“You’re crazy. That’s it. I’m going to die with a crazy man.” She folded her arms over her waist. “Well, at least I never slept with you.”

“You’re going to live long and prosper, baby girl. And you never know.” Drew made a V-sign with his fingers, winked, and stood. “Hold your fire,” he shouted at the men crossing the park. He held up his arms. “We’re not armed. We surrender.”

Rowan grabbed the leg of his jeans. “Hey. I’m not surrendering, you nitwit.”

“Get up and raise your hands,” he said out of the side of his mouth. “So the nice shooters think that you are.”

Rowan realized something, rose and stood beside him, holding her hands in view. “The fountain is made of copper.”

“Uh-huh.” He lowered the fist holding the pennies and pretended to rub his nose, while the fountain began to shake.

She sniffed. “You could have mentioned it before.”

“And spoil the fun?” Drew glanced at her, his eyes glittering like two new pennies. “I thought you’d be more wild, biker chick. You sound just like my mother.”

Rowan watched the men advancing on them. “Four of them.”

“Yep.”

“What are you going to do about the guns?”

He opened his palm, and the pennies in it began to float around his fingers. “Put a cork in them.”

The fountain stopped shaking and produced an eerie whine as the copper basin began undulating.

The shooters stopped a few feet away from the fountain, and aimed for their heads.

“Guys.” Drew smiled. “Put down the guns, turn around, and walk away.”

One of the men laughed. None of them moved.

Drew sighed. “It never works in the movies, either.”

The pennies streaked away from his hand, moving so fast Rowan couldn’t follow them. One man’s gun exploded in his hand, and as the blast knocked him backward the others dropped their guns and shouted, seizing their bloody hands, in which Rowan saw penny-size wounds.

“Hell, Drew, you only hit one out of four.”

“I got their hands, didn’t I?” He scowled at her. “You try ramming a penny down the barrel of a weapon from thirty yards away, then you can complain about my aim.”

She chuckled. “Okay, it was pretty cool.”

“And everyone says pennies are worthless.” Drew touched the basin of the fountain and slowly raised his hands like a magician trying to conjure. The copper screamed as it flared up as if molten, shedding flakes of green rust as the water it contained poured out and flooded the ground.

The uneven wall of copper split in two, then four, then eight sections before they lifted into the air and stretched out over the four men. Each of the copper strips wove through the others before the ends drove themselves into the ground. Drew sent more copper from the fountain to reinforce the strips, until he had fashioned a crude but effective cage around the shooters.

Rowan heard a shout, and looked over at a white-face man who had stopped at the curb and was peering through the open window of his car. “Call nine-one-one,” she yelled to him. “These terrible men have vandalized the park.”

The man gunned his car and sped off.

“No one wants to do the right damn thing anymore.” Rowan walked over to the cage, reached in, and grabbed the uninjured hand of the man closest to her. The image of a voluptuous, Marilyn-Monroe type blonde in a tight sequined dress filled her head, and her body went into shift. A moment later she pouted her red lips and looked into the man’s wide eyes.

“Honeybunch, how could you shoot at me?” she said.

“Rosie, I swear I didn’t see you.” Caught up in the vision of the woman he loved, the shooter smiled. “I thought you were back in L.A.”

“I was too lonely for you, sweetie pie.” Rowan leaned close. “How did you find us? Who else is going to try to hurt me?”

The man’s eyes glazed over. “We tracked the bike. Teams all over the city.” He grunted as one of the other men slammed a fist into the side of his head, and he slumped back.

“You can’t get away,” the second man told her. “You’re dead.”

Rowan stood, shifting back into herself as she turned to Drew. “What?”

The side of his mouth curled. “Can you do the blonde again? Maybe for the rest of the day?”

“Shut up.” She walked past him. “And come on. We need to steal a car.”

2009-02-14T18:07:00.000-05:00

Basic Patchwork Quilt Repair

Repairing a quilt mainly requires time and patience. Before you attempt to repair any vintage quilt, it's a good idea to have it appraised and (if possible) obtain an estimate on having it restored by a professional, certified quilt conservator. Because most vintage quilts are in fragile condition, and are unique pieces of history that cannot be replaced, you may do more harm than good by trying to repair it yourself.

Still, if you own a relatively newer quilt that needs some TLC, or you buy an old or cutter quilt that isn't valuable but that you'd like to repair, you can perform basic repairs yourself. First, be sure the quilt is basically strong enough for regular use or display, because there's no sense in repairing a quilt you can't use.

You'll also need to figure out how much work is going to be involved. Estimate the amount of damage you have to repair by looking at the surface of the piece. I never work a quilt that is more than 50% damaged because it's too time-consuming; I can make three or four brand-new quilts in the same amount of time it takes to repair a seriously damaged piece.

Here's a section of an antique quilt I'm working on this week. It's approximately twenty to thirty years old, probably one of the early imports that were sold in department stores when the quilt craze started taking off:

I don't care for imported quilts, which are made in sweat shops overseas by women who are only paid pennies for their work, but since they have little to no value they're excellent to use as teaching and demonstration pieces. I also like reclaiming imported quilts and transforming them because that's my little way of flipping off the department stores (this project will be part of a booklet I'm writing for my guild.)

The foundation of this quilt is intact and strong, the machine quilting is also in great shape, and the feel of it is nice and soft. Most of the dresden plates (the circles of patchwork) are worn and/or torn. To repair it, I'll have to replace each patch one at a time.

Each conservator has a slightly different approach to repair work. I custom-fit my replacement patches to the individual area because over time quilts stretch and what may have started out as a piece with identical-sized patches will have variations in patch size.

To custom-fit patchwork, the first step is to measure the dimensions of the patch you want to replace:

Use a piece of your scrap/leftover fabric or cut a patch from new fabric that is at least 1/2" wider and longer than the patch you're replacing:

Fold under 1/4" of one side of the patch (I generally start at the longest/bottom-most seam) and pin it in place directly over the old patchwork:

Now working in a counter-clockwise direction, move to the next seam and fold your new patch backward until the edge matches the corresponding seam of the old patch. Trim to 1/4", then fold under the extra fabric and pin in place:

Repeat this step with the next side of the patch:

Remember to trim only to 1/4" of the seam, to give you enough fabric to fold under and pin:

Continue in a counter-clockwise direction, repeating the same steps:

When you have fitted your new patch to the quilt, it should look like this:

Starting at the innermost seam, begin blind-stitching or applique-stitching your new patch to the old (I use a blind stitch because I think it looks neater.) Your new seams should just cover the old ones beneath it:

Continue stitching the patch to the surface of quilt in a counter-clockwise direction until all of the seams are sewn over the old patch:

Once you've stitched the replacement patch in place, you can quilt it to the quilt. Your stitched will likely be larger than usual because you have to get the needle through an extra layer of material:

The finished patch should look like this:

Here's the progress I've made so far on this section:

This technique not only repairs the damage, it preserves the original patchwork beneath the replacement fabric. This adds strength to the quilt but more importantly it preserves the original work. While imports may never have any value, I don't like destroying someone else's work -- and who knows, maybe in thirty more years old import quilts will skyrocket in value.

Another note on this particular project: Usually I would use fabrics that match the surface patchwork, but because this contains cheap, uninteresting materials without much variety in the patterns I decided it wasn't worth going through the effort of fabric matching. Making it over with these stronger, more dramatic colors and patterns will give it more contrast and visual impact, and will draw the eye away from some of the sunlight damage to the background fabric.

The work to properly repair a quilt is painstaking and can get boring, so I recommend anyone who hasn't ever tried it to start with something small. Practice first on a cutter quilt piece (a manageable section cut out of an old quilt; you can buy them on eBay) or a crib-size baby quilt.

Also, don't attempt to make your first repair job a quilt with small or difficult-looking patchwork pattern; go for simple quilts that have block- or rectangular patchwork (triangle-shaped patches are hard to fold and fit; circular or curved patchwork requires a different type of fitting technique for replacement patches.)

Added 2/17/09: Here's a before and after on the finished section:

2009-02-07T22:56:00.000-05:00

An excerpt from Shadowlight
A novel of the Kyndred
by Lynn Viehl
to be published November 2009

Lucan noticed three things about the state of Georgia: the land was beautiful, the natives’ dialect made them almost as incomprehensible as the Cubans of south Florida, and the men in authority here did not care for females having the same.

“That there’s the problem, Miss,” the fat desk sergeant said as he settled his bulk on one elbow so he could get a better view of Samantha’s neckline. “Y’all come here without an invite to pick up a prisoner after hours. I don’t know how y’all run your department down there, but that’s not how it works in Atlanta.”

Much to Lucan’s disappointment, Samantha did not leap across the scarred surface of the reception desk or rip out the offensive mortal’s throat. She, the soul of patience, merely smiled.

“The prisoner has considerable financial resources at his command and is a serious flight risk,” she told the insolent mortal. “The last time he made bail on capital murder charges, he fled the state. The district attorney wants only to assure that he stands trial in Fort Lauderdale.”

“Lady, my captain don’t care if he has to go before a judge in the North Pole.” He chuckled at his own joke. “We got our way of doing things, and this ain’t it.”

“Obviously.” Lucan took her elbow and pulled her to one side. “This is a waste of time. I will go and retrieve the bag of scum.”

“Scumbag,” she corrected. “We had an agreement. We’re here to extradite Grodan, not terrorize and destroy half the city.” Before he could reply, she added, “Behave yourself, Suzerain, or I’ll make you fill out the paperwork.”

He eyed the stack of forms the desk sergeant had produced. “You would not be so heartless.”

“Keep pushing and find out.” She went back to the desk, collected the forms, and made an appointment to see the chief of homicide the following afternoon. “Would it be possible to obtain a copy of the arrest reports?” When the man scowled, she added, “I have to call the district attorney tonight, and I’m sure he’d be interested in how cooperative your department has been.”

The sergeant released a long suffering sigh before he trudged into a back office and returned a few minutes later. “Here’s copies of what all the Feds sent over with him.”

“Thank you.” Sam took the folder and glanced at Lucan. “We’ll need a hotel room.”

“Five of my favorite words.” He clasped her hand in his. “But I’ve already arranged suitable accommodations.”

She didn’t seem to hear him, engrossed as she was in the contents of the file. In the car, she finished reading and closed the folder. “That’s odd. I thought they caught him in the act, but they didn’t even know he was in the city. Stop driving so fast.”

“This is a Ferrari,” he reminded her. “It does not allow itself to be driven slowly. What act?”

“Setting up another con,” Samantha said. “The guy uses his partners for everything – making hotel registrations, renting cars, buying whatever he needs – all under their names. That way there’s never any evidence implicating him. He never leaves a trail. I figured his new partner tipped off the Bureau. Instead, they get an anonymous phone call reporting him and the partner.”

Lucan shrugged. “So a good citizen did their duty. Mortals are forever blowing the horn on each other.”

“The whistle, not the horn. This someone knew everything – where he was, who he was with, what they’d already done in New York and what they planned to do here. Max is a ghost. He just doesn’t exist.” She frowned, thinking. “Maybe one of his old partners got away from him. But how would she know where he was, and what he doing?”

2008-11-17T23:33:00.000-05:00

Nothing Can Possibly Go Wrong Now
by S.L. Viehl

As I was speaking to an editor six months ago about the very real possibility of having my novel in print, I thought, "This is fantastic! Nothing can possibly go wrong now!"

Which of course, as any fool knows, is the invocation of Murphy's Law.

The editor asked me to send her my manuscript overnight so that she could read it over the weekend. No problem, I said. I'll send it UPS next day air tomorrow. She didn't know I was stretching the truth a bit. It takes 8 - 10 hours for my ancient printer to spit out a 632 page manuscript on track-feed paper. I didn't have a copy ready. I started printing that night, and got 165 pages out before I had to drop from exhaustion.

The next morning, I dropped the kids off at school. My van's engine died in last school's parking lot. I put my forehead against the steering wheel and pleaded with "Bessy" to turn over, just one more time, so I could get home and start printing. After twenty tries, "Bessy" took pity on me and started.

I rushed home. Got the printer started. Looked for the Valium. Couldn't find it. Heard a terrible screeching noise. Went back to the printer. Saw that page 224 had fed back into the track feeders and was now also page 236 in crumpled-fan form. Said alot of words I don't allow the children to use. Fixed the printer and the paper. Sat next to it and prayed. Watched as the seemingly endless box of paper ran the last sheet through. Ran around looking for anything made out of wood pulp I could print the manuscript on. Found some dusty old paper. Dusted it off. Fed it in. Said more of those words.

At last, at 1:30 pm, I called the guy at packing & shipping company I used for UPS packages.

"Dennis!" I shrieked. "Tell me the UPS guy hasn't been there yet."

"The UPS guy hasn't been here yet," he said obligingly.

"Okay. Here's the deal," I said. "I've got about ten pounds of paper that has to be in New York tomorrow. My future as a science fiction writer and a sane person depends on it. My van is giving me trouble. I may have to resort to a taxi if I can't start it. I need you to stall UPS for me. Can you handle it, buddy?"

"No problem," Dennis replied. "I'll sit on the guy if he shows before you do."

I grabbed the manuscript, ran out to the van, got behind the wheel, looked up at God and said, "Please. Just get me as far as the packing & shipping place. I'll stop eating Hershey Bars for the rest of the year." I didn't say life because I don't like to lie to God. I stuck the key in the ignition. Turned it over. "Bessy" purred like a kitten. Once again I'd confirmed there is a God. Drove like a madwoman to the packing and shipping place. Dennis was smiling as I staggered in and dumped my manuscript on the counter.

"He hasn't been here yet," Dennis assured me. He boxed up the manuscript and weighed it. "Whoa. $72.00 just to overnight this? I'll buy a plane ticket and take it up there for you myself. Only costs twenty bucks more."

I was too exhausted to care. "Whatever. Just so the woman gets it." I propped my forehead on my hand. "Dennis, tell me again why I'm doing this to myself."

"You told me it was fun writing books," he reminded me.

"Writing them, yes. Trying to sell them..." I rolled my eyes. "Maybe someday I'll make enough money to hire a secretary."

"Make sure she's got good transportation," was Dennis' advice.

Dennis is a nice man. He gave me a 10% discount and threw in the box and packaging for nothing. I promised him an autographed copy of the novel, and my hand in marriage should my husband ever decide to kick me out. Which he might, if my guy ever finds out how much it costs to overnight a manuscript to New York.

That was six months ago. The editor read my manuscript, and its sequel, and offered me a contract for both. It worked out great - with my advance, I bought a new printer and got the transmission fixed on the van.

All I have to worry about now is earning back the advance, getting the right publicity, writing the third book in what has now become a series....and finding that bottle of Valium. Soon.

(Originally published in the August 1999 issue of Writer's Digest magazine.)

2008-11-06T12:00:00.000-05:00

An excerpt from Master of Shadows
A novella of the Darkyn
by Lynn Viehl

A caress scented with violets roused Rebecca of Daven from her slumber. Paling sunlight inched down the bed and away from her skin, replaced by the soothing touch of large, powerful hands. She should have grown accustomed to this by now, so long had they been together, but no, it seemed she never would. Each time she found herself in his arms seemed as great a miracle as the very first.

When she thought on who they had been, and what had happened to them, perhaps it was.

“At last,” a deep voice stirred her hair. “The lady awakes.”

“You are mistaken.” Rebecca smiled against the fingertip tracing the bow of her lips, but kept her eyes closed. “The lady still dreams.”

“Then she must talk in her sleep.” A lean cheek grazed her chin, and cool breath whispered against her ear. “Does she do anything else, I wonder?”

“Soon she must rise and rouse the other women, break the fast, tend to the animals, begin the washing, clean the south chambers, and finish the carding.” She wrinkled her nose. “Unless my lord gives me yet another long list of impossible tasks he wishes me to see to while he plays at being castellan. He delights in such things, you know.”

“Hmmmm. This fellow sounds lazy and uncaring.” He nipped her earlobe and shifted his body to cover hers. “You would do better to stay here in bed with me, lovely one.”

The delicious weight of him made Rebecca sigh and slid her arms around his waist. “I want nothing more than that, but I think my husband would have some strong objections.” She opened her eyes and grinned up into the dark, scowling face of the brute on top of her. “Oh, Sylas. ‘Tis you.”

“Devious wench.” He kissed her hard. “For that I should chain you to this bed for a week.”

“Do you promise?” She curled her good leg over his hip, arching against him. “An entire week?”

Her husband’s scowl faded as his eyes, black as midnight, took on a faint blue glow. “’Twould not be enough, would it?”

No, it wouldn’t. Rebecca sometimes wondered if eternity would be.

2008-10-06T23:48:00.000-04:00

Ten Pics from PBW's Latest Road Trip

1. Tybee Island, Georgia -- we took a walk down the beach here so I could get my sea fix; beautiful place.

2. The Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist, Savannah. Even more imposing and intimidating than it looks. The building across the street is now a coffee shop, which I found rather amusing.

3. Detail from brick wall, Factor's Walk off Bay Street down by the river, Savannah. I am always fascinated by the countless varieties, shapes, colors and ages of the stone and brick used to build the city.

4. This two-face, squat, flaming object was set out on the sidewalk, near Lafayette Square, Savannah. I don't think anyone would try to lift it, much less steal it.

5. A flock of seagulls, Tybee Island. They followed me wherever I walked so I guess someone has been feeding them or I've suddenly become irresistable to gulls.

6. Early morning shot of Lafayette Square. I wondered around here for about an hour taking various pics and soaking up the sound of water splashing in the fountain and the ever-present birdsong.

7. Garden tucked away behind a church that I passed by (I think this was the First Baptist Church, but I can't swear to it.)

8. A contemporary wrought iron gate of leaves with a woodpecker and other critters hiding among the branches.

9. The Owens-Thomas House; designed by William Jay. One of the best examples of Regency architecture in America and my favorite house in Savannah. Don't get me started on this one, I'll never shut up.

10. An interesting staircase (there are a million of them in Savannah) that I passed while out walking around the historic district. I have no idea who the ghosts are, but they were friendly.

2008-05-31T21:34:00.000-04:00

2008-05-31T16:02:00.001-04:00

2008-03-26T03:00:00.000-04:00

An excerpt from Stay the Night
a novel of the Darkyn
by Lynn Viehl
to be released in January 2009

“Don’t go yet, love.”

The mortal female didn’t resist Robin of Locksley’s hold. For this he was glad, absorbed as he became in the texture and warmth of her silky skin against his. From the moment she’d walked into the club, her presence had held him riveted. Many human women had fetching features, effortless grace, or engaging wit, but rare were the ones who possessed all three.

“There’s no reason to stay,” she said.

Along with her obvious virtues she had a manner as direct as a man’s and as pitiless as one of Robin’s arrows. That, too, he found captivating; it had been centuries since any mortal female had denied him anything.

“If you go now,” he countered, “we may never see each other again.”

She gently eased her wrist from his grip. “I’ll try not to let that ruin my life.”

Her resistance puzzled him. A small percentage of people were slow to be affected by or were immune to l’attrait, the scent his immortal body shed to attract and control humans. But his talent, the ability to charm any mortal he touched, had never failed to sway even the most defiant human.

Perhaps it had more to do with her than him, Robin thought. Everything about her attested to her character, from the dignified set of her shoulders and spine to the clever choice of her garments. A business woman, her well-cut dark rose jacket and slim skirt said, one who disdained hiding or apologizing for her sex. The pale pink silk scarf she wore knotted around her slim neck suggested that equally delicate lingerie lay beneath the lace confection of her cream-colored blouse.

Then there were her legs, which could only be called superb. Robin imagined easing the thin straps of her heels from her feet and sliding the shimmering stockings from those long, curvy limbs. He might have done so, had she succumbed to l’attrait. Bespelled by his scent, she would not have been able to leave his presence, or resist any request he made.

The woman’s obvious intelligence and confidence indicated a very strong will. Perhaps she could not easily be swayed by anything, even his Kyn talent.

“It is getting late,” she was saying.

Robin knew he should let her go – such humans as she were dangerous to the Kyn – but found he could not. Not until he further tested her remarkable restraint. “You will never know, then.”

“Know what?”

He took her hand again, lifted it and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “What my stratagem was.”

The intimate gesture seemed to amuse her. “So tell me before I leave.”

Robin wondered how she would react if she knew that he’d deliberately sent the brunette call girl over to distract the last inebriated male who had pestered her at the bar, or that he’d cleared everyone from the tables around him to create an oasis of calm in the noisy club. An oasis for her.

“I have endeavored to keep you from discovering” –he turned her hand and touched his lips briefly to the thin blue veins on the inside of her wrist— “that I came here for you.”

At last gratifying surprise rounded slightly her cognac-colored eyes, revealing the glints of fawn and gold in her irises. A moment later it was gone. “Seeing as we’ve never met, I doubt that.”

“In life, perhaps not.” He admired the play of the light cast by the mirrored ball over the strands of fiery hair she’d tamed into a smooth twist at the back of her head. “There are other worlds. Other lives.”

She studied him just as closely in return. “I don’t believe in quantum theory, past lives or reincarnation.”

“Nor do I.” Slipping into the old way of speaking was dangerous, but he didn’t care. “It matters not, as long as you will stay.”

“I don’t know you,” she replied, her tone remaining maddeningly reasonable, “and I never pick up strange men in bars.”

“I’m Rob.” He gave one end of her scarf a playful tug. “Tell me your name, and we’ll no longer be strangers.”

“It’s Chris.” Her head turned as the music slowed, and the humans gyrating on the dance floor embraced and began swaying together. Without looking at him, she added, “I really can’t stay. I have to go into work early tomorrow.”

As she made her excuse, Robin could hear a wistful note in her voice, and saw a glimmer of envy in her eyes as she watched the other mortals dancing.

She might not want him, but she wanted to dance.

“Then we shall not waste another moment.” He laced his fingers through hers. “Stay for this song, Chris. Stay and dance with me.”

She regarded him for the space of ten heartbeats before she turned and led him toward the crowded dance floor.

Robin enjoyed many of the freedoms of this modern era, but none so much as the dances which permitted a man to take into his arms and hold close any woman who gave her consent. During his human lifetime, such scandalous contact would have resulted in the instant ruination of the woman’s reputation and an immediate end to her partner’s bachelor status, if the woman’s father didn’t demand other, more lethal forms of satisfaction.

Once on the dance floor, Robin guided her around to face him, encircling her waist with his free arm while lifting their entwined fingers to hold her hand over his heart. She was tall for a woman; if she moved two steps closer she could tickle his mouth with her curly red eyelashes or kiss the hollow of his throat.

Chris did neither of those things, but stepped back until several inches separated their bodies.

Undaunted, Robin spread his free hand over the gentle curve of the small of her back, where a delicious amount of body heat permeated the thin material of her dress to caress his palm and fingers.

“You feel very warm,” he said, bending his head so that his breath stirred the smooth strands of hair coiled above her ear. “Are you uncomfortable?”

“I’m fine.” Chris did not press herself against him, nor did she strain away as she followed his lead. She maintained that respectable distance between them as she danced. She did not look up at him, however, but kept her eyes on the band’s gray-haired singer as he crooned the words to the gentle tune.

“It’s a pretty song, isn’t it?” she asked. “I think it was the only hit Spandau Ballet ever had.”

“Spandau Ballet.” He’d heard of many dance troupes, but never that one. “I cannot say that I am familiar with them.”

“Before our time,” Chris said. “My mother loved this song.” Her shoulders tensed and her voice changed, growing crisp and impersonal again. “How did you know what I was drinking? Did you ask the waitress, or the bartender?”

“Neither.” She guarded herself better than a Scotsman did his purse, Robin thought, while asking questions better left unanswered. He decided to tell her the truth and see what she would make of it. “I could smell the ginger ale on your breath.”

“You couldn’t have done that,” she told him flatly. “You were sitting at least ten feet away from me.”

“Alas, I’m cursed with a sensitive nose.” He took in the scent of her on a slow, deep breath. “You also smell of rain, herbs, honey and . . .” He bent his head close to her mouth. “Maraschino cherries. Did you steal them when the bartender wasn’t looking?”

“No, he put two in the first drink he made for me.” Her fine cognac eyes grew wary. “That’s quite an impressive trick.”

He moved his shoulders. “It’s nothing.”

“I washed my hair with rain-scented shampoo and conditioner today,” Chris said, “and I drank a cup of herbal tea with honey.”

He grinned. “So I was right.”

“I did all that,” she continued, “when I got up this morning.” She waited a beat. “Seventeen hours ago.”

Robin’s smile faded as her words invoked an image of her in his bed, her pale skin and auburn hair glowing against the dark sienna of his silk sheets, her arms open and welcoming. Unless he found some way – and quickly – to lay siege to the fortress she had built around her heart, he would never see her there.

“If this is a practical joke, it’s a good one,” Chris continued. “Did Hutchins put you up to it?”

“I don’t know anyone named Hutchins.” He could barely speak as primal need surged through him, demanding he find some manner in which to turn the fantasy into reality. Feeding earlier lent him a certain measure of control he might otherwise have lost in this astonishing rush of desire for her, but Robin did not trust himself. “I am not joking with you.”

“You’re not.” She sounded uncertain now.

Robin couldn’t jest with her, not with the urgency of his hunger pounding inside his head. He could not tolerate another moment of this. He had to have her. Tonight. Now. He kept a suite of rooms at the hotel where he frequently used willing females. The only thing that kept him from sweeping her up into his arms and carrying her off to the nearest elevator was the sound of her voice, asking him more questions.

“Do you know a fair-haired man who wears a lot of red?” She nodded toward the other side of the dance floor. “There’s one over there staring at you.”

Robin glanced over to see his seneschal, Will Scarlet. He made a simple gesture behind Chris’s back, and Will scowled but retreated into the crowd.

“Pay no heed to him.” He noticed the other couples staring and smiling at him and realized how badly his control had slipped; somehow he’d flooded the entire dance floor with his scent. No wonder Will had come to see what the matter was. Soon every occupant of the bar would fall under his spell.

Except one, it seemed.

Robin peered down at the woman in his arms to see if her pupils had dilated, but the dark color of her eyes made it impossible to tell. “How are you feeling?”

“This is nice.” She sighed. “I don’t want to go home.”

At last, her fortress was crumbling. He didn’t know if it was due to his talent or l’attrait, and he didn’t care. He tugged her closer, fitting her body to his. She did not pull away, and indeed the movements they made caused her abdomen to rub lightly over his.

Robin gritted his teeth. “What if I ask you for more than a dance, love?”

“You can ask.” She emphasized the last word oddly.

Robin knew women, delighted in them. He had spent several lifetimes enjoying their company, learning their ways and recognizing their wiles. He knew the subtle changes arousal caused in their voices and their bodies, the tantalizing signs that showed their interest in a man.

Although Chris was perhaps the most reserved human female he had ever encountered, and possessed great skill in masking both her true thoughts and emotions, he did not doubt now that she desired him. No mortal he touched had ever resisted his charm for long. Not even this stubborn wench, who had wanted nothing to do with him but five minutes ago.

Fool. Inside Robin’s skull, his father’s angry voice shouted across seven centuries. You only want her because you cannot have her.

The scent of bergamot thinned as Robin’s self-disgust grew, and gradually the other couples on the dance floor lost interest in them. When the song ended, he released Chris and stepped away from her, breaking all physical contact. As long as he didn’t touch her, his talent could not influence her decisions. As soon as he left, the effects of l’attrait would rapidly dissipate.

And he would never know her, and that was how it would have to be.

Robin bowed to her. “I thank you for the dance.”

Chris began to say something, and then hesitated as if choosing her words.

“It’s all right, love. This is not your doing.” Because he couldn’t help himself, he added, “My home in the city is on the penthouse floor of the Armstrong building. It is that unsightly tower of black glass and steel at the end of the street. Do you know it?”

She nodded.

“Good.” At least he could offer this much. “Come to me there, whenever you wish.”

“Come to you? Rob—”

“Listen to me now.” He felt his dents acérées emerge into his mouth, fully extended and aching for a taste of her flesh. He slid his hand to cup the back of her neck and pressed his cheek to hers, using his talent to enforce his words. “I want you, love, more than I can say. But it must be what you want. When I am gone, when your head clears, then you must choose to do as you wish. Nothing more. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, but—”

Robin pressed his scarred fingers against her lips. “You know where I will be. I do not sleep until after dawn.” He put his mouth to the back of her hand, careful not to let her feel the sharp tips of his fangs. “I hope that we meet again, my lady.”

#

Chris watched Rob walk out of the club before she retreated to her table and sat down alone. She’d enjoyed the dance, and the rare opportunity to be treated as nothing more than a pretty woman, but something she had said or done had given Rob the wrong impression.

Maybe he’d read her wrong when she’d mentioned how nice it was to dance and that she didn’t want to go home. Somehow that innocent remark had driven him wild. So much so that he hadn’t even bothered to conceal the lust that he’d assumed was mutual.

I want you, love, more than I can say.

Chris had worked in a male-dominated field for years, and she knew how fragile men’s egos could be. She also avoided being cruel whenever possible. She would have let him down gently; she’d had every intention of doing so as soon as the song was over. But from the moment he’d made it clear that he wanted more than a dance, he’d hardly let her get a word in edgewise. In fact, he’d behaved as if she were the one acting out of control.

It matters not, as long as you will stay.

She’d noticed immediately the odd shift in his speech when he’d become aroused, too. Maybe he was an actor. He’d certainly been so preoccupied with being noble that in the end he’d done the dirty work for her.

. . . it must be what you want.

Had she sent him some mixed signals? It wouldn’t violate Chris’s cast-iron principals to admit that Rob was one of the most attractive men she’d ever met. Or that being in his arms had brought back to life feelings that she’d thought the job had smothered long ago. No, that wasn’t true. She’d forgotten the job and her responsibilities, and for a few minutes had enjoyed simply being a woman. That could have been what set Rob off. Then he’d had that panic attack or whatever it had been, and seemed as if he couldn’t get away from her fast enough. She still felt a little guilty for allowing him to leave in such a state.

It’s all right, love. This is not your doing.

Chris left the club and took the elevator down to the lobby, where a doorman offered to hail a cab for her. Without thinking she shook her head and glanced down the street.

You know where I will be.

That she did. She could see the Armstrong building from here. It was exactly as he’d described: an ugly column of dark glass and polished steel girders. All the windows were dark, except for the rows on the very top floor. Those windows glowed with diffused light from within.

I do not sleep until after dawn.

She wouldn’t sleep at all tonight, either. Not after this.

. . . you must choose to do as you wish.

Without knowing exactly why, Chris began walking down toward the end of the street.

2007-12-17T14:05:00.000-05:00

An Excerpt from Omega Games by S.L. Viehl
(StarDoc series book eigh)t
to be published by Ace/Roc SF/F in August 2008

OTR FTE relay 194075/obdistr/source unknown:

Private party free trader offers level-one unilateral bounty in return for the detainment, capture, or information leading to the apprehension of Terran experimental life form Cherijo Grey Veil (aliases: Cherijo Reever, Cherijo Torin, SsureeVa, Jarn.)

Grey Veil, a bioengineered clone, appears to be a typical Terran female (see embedded images.) Educated on Terra as a cardio-thoracic surgeon, the organism escaped custody and fled her creator, the late Terran physician/medical researcher Joseph Grey Veil. While serving as trauma physician to the multi-species colony on Kevarzangia Two, Grey Veil applied for and was denied sentient status by the Allied League of Worlds (reference SSD case #4165998-K2-GVC.) The organism subsequently sought and was granted asylum by Jorenian HouseClan Torin.

Grey Veil is a highly intelligent and manipulative life form, implicated in causing the Kevarzangian colonial epidemic, the capture of three hundred ALW ships during the Varallan disaster, the destruction of Hsktskt slave depot world Catopsa, the Oenrallian upheaval, the Jado massacre, the Akkabarran uprising and the Vtaga plague. Grey Veil’s last known location was serving as a crew member on board the Jorenian star vessel Sunlace, TWSID M7774E1691V.

Responders should transmit all related data, signals and scans to inquirer via OTR FTE obdistr relay; mark S/CGV-LAS 0451 and date. Information directly leading to the location and apprehension of Grey Veil will be rewarded with a level-one bounty fee of four million stan credits.

WARNING: To date Grey Veil has successfully evaded or escaped ALW and Faction custody. She was last known to be traveling under the protection of Duncan Reever, former Hsktskt spy and telepathic linguist, who has been alterformed with chameleon cells and cannot be killed, as well as an entourage of battle-trained Jorenian warriors. Grey Veil and her companions are considered extremely dangerous and should not be directly approached or contacted without appropriate forces and safety measures.

Chapter One

“Who are you?”

That was a very good question.

I looked up from the chart I was reading and waited to see if the tall, broad, blue-skinned Jorenian male on the other side of the berth had anything more to say. His people, I knew from experience, talked a great deal. When his hands went still and he glared at me with his all-white but still-functional eyes, I assumed he had finished. The style and color of his tunic, like my own, indicated that he was this ward’s senior medical healer.

His patient’s condition indicated that he wasn’t a very good one.

“I am a visiting physician. A nurse on this ward indicated this patient was in some distress.” I saw no reason to further identify myself or explain the situation. Every time I did, the subsequent reactions of those around me made it impossible for me to do the work. “Was it your decision to treat this female’s condition with only native dermal emollients?”

“I do not discuss my treatments with outsiders.” His hands moved to accompany his words with cutting bluntness. “We care not for Terrans interfering with our kind. Put down that chart and leave this facility now.”

I ignored his hostility toward Terrans as well as his orders, and focused instead on the patient between us. The female lay unconscious, a bleeding rash marring every inch of her pale blue skin. Monitors showed her vitals were slowing, and notes on the chart told me that she had proven unresponsive to conventional antibiotic therapy.

This might be the homeworld of my adopted family, and the natives here important allies, and we all might be dead five minutes from now, but those were no reason to excuse diagnostic incompetence.

“You did not perform abdominal scans or take a personal history. Nor did you contact her HouseClan to inquire as to the origins of her illness.” I would have to note this on the chart and later discuss improving Jorenian triage and assessment procedures with Squilyp, HouseClan Torin’s Senior Healer. Providing that we survived treating this patient, of course. “What is your name?”

“I am Tarveka, ClanSon Zamlon, attending healer,” he snapped back. “As for this female, she was admitted in a state of delirium, and has since been incapable of coherent communication. The skin rash she suffers from has made it impossible to identify her HouseClan mark” – he pointed to the side of her throat where all Jorenians bore the distinctive black birthmark symbolic of their respective natal clans – “but it hardly necessitates the performance of any internal scans.”

The rash had distorted the outlines of the patient’s birthmark, turning it into a black smear. “What did you do for her?”

"As she is suffering from dermitis, I performed a dermal scan and took some tissue samples for culture. The results should be back from our forensic lab tomorrow morning.” He made an impatient gesture. “Have you nothing better to do than disrupt this ward with your uninformed inquiries?”

I was tempted to point out that his shouting had disrupted the ward far more than my evaluation of his patient, but the greater problem occupied the berth. I almost felt grateful for his initial, inaccurate assessment and the manner in which he had bungled her treatment. He’d probably saved his own life as well as the patient’s and everyone else on the ward.

“This female’s condition will not be resolved by skin treatments.” I switched off the chart display and met his antagonistic gaze. My knees wanted to buckle, but this was not Akkabarr; I no longer had to prostrate myself before angry males. In fact, my new life gave me the right to challenge them. “Do you wish to assist me, or is defending your original, erroneous diagnosis of more importance to you?”

“What say you? Assist you? Think you that I am a nurse?” Dark color flushed the skin of his face, and the elegant lids around his all-white eyes narrowed. “You deliberately insult me.”

“Only if you are correct about this patient’s condition, and I am not.” I displayed some of my teeth. “Fortunately, you are not.”

“Making new friends, Doctor?”

We both turned as a one-legged Omorr male hopped over to the end of the berth. HouseClan Torin Senior Healer Squilyp’s dark pink skin, three upper limbs and long white prehensile facial tendrils formed a colorful contrast to the uniformly blue-skinned, black-haired Jorenians around us. So did his scowl, which he directed at me.

I aggravated Squilyp, but then, I did the same to a lot of my new friends.

The Omorr had brought me with him to this facility this morning to, in his words, “keep me out of trouble.” My husband, Duncan Reever, and our adopted Jorenian family, HouseClan Torin, were presently meeting with planetary security officials to brief them on matters of intergalactic importance. That was how they referred to any matter concerning me.

I did not wish to be on this world or among these people. I had no desire to be of importance on a galactic, planetary, continental or even a provincial scale. If no one ever paid any attention to me again, it would not upset me. I simply longed to be with Reever, the only one who truly understood me.

I should have been with him. We had time now to begin our investigation of the mysterious black crystal that my surrogate mother, Maggie, claimed was spreading like a cancer through our galaxy. Reever had already contacted an old Terran comrade who had promised information about the Odnallak, the last survivors of the race that created the black crystal.

Also ever-present on my mind were the results from the latest series of medical tests I had performed on my husband. Reever did not yet know that the chameleon cells in his body that had twice repaired fatal injuries he had received had also infiltrated every organ in his body.

Reever, like me, was no longer precisely human. Somehow I had to find the words to tell him that.

“Doctor?” Squilyp prompted, tugging me free from the snarl of my thoughts.

“I have disagreed with this healer’s assessment and treatment of this patient,” I told the Omorr as I offered him the chart. “He regards my professional opinion as a personal insult. We must move quickly to treat this female—”

“She is ignorant and insolent,” Tarveka said, interrupting me. “She insulted me, and while I am not Torin, I do not need some bigoted offworlder provoking me into a declaration of ClanKill.”

“You have been busy,” the Omorr said to me.

“I want this Terran removed from this ward,” Tarveka said, drawing himself up with great dignity. “At once.”

Being labeled as a Terran annoyed me. Although Terra was my natal world, I knew little of it or its native inhabitants. They were said to be isolationists and xenophobes, obsessed with themselves and maintaining genetic purity.

My body might appear Terran in form, but I was hardly human. I wasn’t even the original occupant of my body; I had been born to it on Akkabarr after point-blank gun shot wounds had destroyed my former self’s mind. I came to life on the day that she died, and was made one of the Iisleg, the people of the ice. Our ancestors had been abducted from Terra, and brought as slaves to Akkabarr, but the only thing we had in common with Terrans was our DNA.

I was Jarn of Akkabarr, not Cherijo Torin of Terra.

Her name in my mind made my stomach clench. The Iisleg never spoke of the dead. They belonged to the Gods.

I did not relate any of this to Healer Tarveka. Trying to explain my existence, previous identity, beliefs and present state of consciousness to a stranger often took hours, and usually required some visual aids. Besides that, if we didn’t deal with this patient, and soon, she and everyone on this ward were going to die, including us.

Now I simply had to relay that to these males without sending them both into uncontrolled hysterics.

Squilyp took the chart and scanned the display. “Senior Healer, do you know who this Terran is?”

“Squilyp,” I said. “We do not have time to waste on trifling matters. Please don’t.”

“You are acting like an Iisleg again.” To Tarveka, the Omorr repeated, “Do you know who she is?”

Tarveka made an impatient, negative gesture.

“In addition to being a member of HouseClan Torin and the Savior of Varallan,” Squilyp said, “the chief physician in charge of rebel forces during the Akkabarran Insurrection, and the named blood kin of TssVar, the new Hsktskt Hanar, she also happens to serve as a member of the Ruling Council of Joren.” He paused for a moment to enjoy the stunned look on the Jorenian’s face. “May I introduce Dr. Cherijo Torin?”

Trust Squilyp to condense my two lifetimes into a handful of words. I watched most of the healthy dark blue color fade from the Jorenian healer’s face, leaving it taunt and chalky-looking. “You did not mention that I am also an amnesiac, a dead handler, and a bioengineered clone.”

“I will remember to,” the Omorr assured me, “the next time you try to provoke someone into declaring ClanKill.”

“Healer. Torin.” Tarveka seemed to be out of breath. “Your pardon. I. I had no idea you would. That you.” He shuffled back several steps, thumped himself in the chest, and gestured toward the patient. “Please. I would be honored. I will follow. Ah. Any advice. Of course. Please.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too.” As a proper Iisleg woman, that was not something I should have said, but my speech patterns were changing. In fact, since regaining memories of my former self through an intense mind link with my husband, I never knew what would come out of my mouth. I ignored Squilyp’s sharp look as I stripped out of my gloves and signaled a nurse. “Prepare the surgical suite.”

“Surgery?” Tarveka took a step toward the patient’s berth, as if to protect her from me. He also seemed to regain instant control of his lung function and speech center. “How do you intend to treat dermatitis with surgery?”

“The rash is a symptom, not the cause of her condition,” I said. “My abdominal scans show a foreign mass lodged in the primary pyloric sphincter, restricting the passage between the lower chamber of the stomach and the small intestine.”

“It sounds like a gastric bezoar.” Squilyp took my datapad and reviewed the scan results. “Why is the scan so indistinct?”

“The mass is reflecting it.”

“I cannot believe this rash to be the result of a concretion in the GI tract,” the Jorenian healer said. “With all due respect, Healer Torin, an accumulation of unabsorbed fiber or food is not uncommon among those of us who travel offworld for the first time.”

“Synthetics and alien foodstuffs can be difficult for them to digest,” the Omorr agreed. “Are you sure it’s not the scanner malfunctioning? It shouldn’t be this fuzzy.”

“It is not a foodball,” I said, trying not to clench my teeth, “or a hairball. Nor is the scanner at fault. It is a—”

“Whatever its composition, we should begin with a gastrointestinal probe, to determine what formed the mass,” the Omorr said, giving me a disapproving glance. “There are any number of non-surgical treatments we can use for dissolution or removal. Enzymatic disruption, gastric lavage – even pulse lithotripsy.”

The thought of anyone using focused light lithotripsy on this patient made me disguise a shudder.

“That would be extremely unwise.” I tugged back the linen sheet and raised the edge of the patient’s gown, exposing her abdomen. “Observe how dense the rash covers her torso. Here” –I indicated the median area beneath her sternum— “the dermatitis disguises a recent vertical cell displacement measuring two point three centimeters. A puncture wound, likely inflicted by a sharp object, perhaps a bladed weapon. It ruptured the small intestine, and although the peristalsis has prevented any leakage, peritonitis is imminent.” Among other things.

“She was stabbed?” Tarveka murmured, aghast and furious. Jorenians were extremely protective of their kin, and would eviscerate anyone who even threatened to hurt them. “Who could do such a thing on Joren and escape ClanKill?”

“I cannot say, but whatever pierced her body likely deposited the mass into her stomach cavity. She is tachycardic and hypotensive; her condition is deteriorating rapidly.” I didn’t want to say more in front of the Jorenian, so I turned and addressed the nurse. “I will need a drone surgical assistance unit, a shielded container in which to deposit the mass, and an isolation chamber prepared with full detox for recovery.”

“Healer, should I not prep the patient?” the nurse wanted to know.

“I thank you, but I will do that.” I went to a diagnostic unit, cross-referenced the forensic database, and entered all the information I had discovered from my scans. The unit compared the data to all such devices known to the Jorenians.

Device not found. Just as I had suspected.

“What are you looking for?” Tarveka came to my side. He looked distressed and still slightly affronted. “Permit me to assist you, Healer.”

“I prefer drones in the operating room,” I lied. I thought of the communications center, located on the lowest level of the hospital. Sending him there would get him out of my face. “Would you be so kind as to go and inform HouseClan Torin that my return to the pavilion will be delayed?”

“Of course.” Hiding his irritation with the exquisite manners of his kind, the Jorenian made a complicated hand gesture of regret and respect, and left the ward.

Squilyp put a membrane on my arm as soon as the Jorenian was out of earshot, and said, “You are not being completely candid. Why do you want a shielded container, and why won’t you let a nurse prep her? Why are you accessing the weapons database? You have never liked using drones in surgery.”

“I will not know for certain until I open her up.” The look in his dark eyes made me add, “Don’t become alarmed, Senior Healer, but the abdominal wound smells of destabilized arutanium.”

His gildrells straightened into stiff, white spikes. “You can smell that?”

“During the rebellion, we would always check casualties for the odor,” I admitted. “Our wounded were sometimes used by the Toskald that way. I will not know for certain until I open her abdomen.”

“But Jarn, for there to be traces of destabilized arutanium—”

“—someone had to plant an explosive inside her body,” I finished for him. “One that has yet to detonate. Which is why when I go into surgery, you must evacuate everyone from this facility.”

#

Squilyp wished to argue with me, but he now knew why we did not have time to debate my decision to operate. He did, however, insist I activate the transmitter in my vocollar and keep the channel open as I worked on the patient. A training monitor in the surgical suite would provide a visual feed for him to observe the entire procedure.

“You may need something,” he argued, “and you will not be able to send the drone out to retrieve it for you.”

I was not enamored with the idea of being monitored while I worked, but he was right. It would also allow me to quickly relate exactly what I found inside the patient’s body, and how much danger it presented to the facility and surrounding area. “Very well.”

While I made the adjustments to my vocollar, the Omorr instructed the nurses to begin moving the patients, and then came over to give me an earpiece.

“This will allow for two-way communication,” he advised me. “I have summoned Torin security to surround the facility. What should I tell Reever?”

“Tell him that I am working,” I said as I injected the patient with neuroparalyzer and secured her body with motion restraints. I rolled the berth over to the surgical suite, but I didn’t transfer her onto an operating platform. I couldn’t take the chance of jarring her and possibly triggering an explosion.

Squilyp stayed with the patient while I donned a surgical shroud, and then stopped me as the drone surgical assistance unit rolled its instrument tray past us and into the suite. “I cannot allow you to do this alone. I will stay and assist.”

The Omorr could be very male when it came to situations like this. He would also die along with the patient if the round exploded while I was operating. Thanks to my bioengineered physiology, I would not.

“You’ll get out of here and keep me on remote monitor, or I’ll signal your mate and tell her what you’re doing,” I told him as I fastened a surgical mask over the lower part of my face. “Then I’ll signal mine.”

“You would not dare.”

I looked at him over the edge of my mask and let Cherijo’s words answer him. “Try me.”

“Of course you would.” He sighed. “Very well, Doctor. If you change your mind—”

“I won’t.” I swept a hand toward the ward exit panels. “Get out.”

When Squilyp had left, I grasped the edge of the gurney and eased the patient through the air lock and into the main surgical suite. The drone had followed its programmed instructions and set up for an intestinal laparotomy while I scrubbed.

“Initiate sterile field.” As the containment generators created an envelope of clean air around us, I administered the appropriate prophylactic antibiotics and instructed the drone to commence anesthesia before I spoke to Squilyp. “Senior Healer, is the channel clear?”

“It is,” the Omorr said over the earpiece as I used the lascalpel to make the midline incision. “This is madness, you know.”

“It is a routine procedure with potentially hazardous complications,” I corrected. “Cherijo’s first surgery after leaving Terra was much like this.”

“You remember that bowel obstruction?” Like everyone who knew my former self, Squilyp still hoped I would recover the memories of that life.

“No, I read about it in her entries on Kevarzangia Two. And it was a strangulated colon.” I did not personally recall the procedure, but thanks to Cherijo’s journals and my husband’s telepathic abilities, I knew many details of my former life. “She did not mention if the surgery was a success.”

“It was, barely,” Squilyp said. “Another physician named Rogan had misdiagnosed the patient, you told me, and you had to remove the entire bowel, which had turned putrid. She nearly died.”

I felt an odd shift in my mind as learned memories blended with my own. “Strangulation obstruction carries a twenty-five to thirty percent mortality rate if surgery is delayed more than thirty-six hours after onset of symptoms. The patient lived. Did I clone a new colon for her?”

“She was an Orgemich,” Squilyp said. “That species has twin bowels.”

I could just imagine what Cherijo would have said: I should have strangled Rogan with the gangrenous ones.

Once I had cut the patient’s abdomen open, I performed a visual inspection of the stomach and small intestine. Jorenians had the same basic digestive system as most humanoids, with a few exceptions caused by adaptive evolution, such as their dual-chambered stomach, which allowed them to digest their food in stages.

“Color is normal, with some arterial pulsation. I see a considerable amount of distention in the valve, but the tissue appears viable. Thermal scanner.” I used the non-invasive instrument to pinpoint the exact location of the mass. “The obstruction is still partially lodged in the pyloric sphincter adjunct to the secondary chamber. That is causing the bulge.” I noticed an unusual, dull yellow discoloration around the insertion point in the sphincter, and felt my heart skip a beat.

“Use an isotonic lavage,” the Omorr suggested. “You can introduce it through the esophagus and force the blockage to move down into the small intestine.”

“Not this time,” I said as I studied the scanner readout, although the yellow discoloration already told me exactly what had been shoved into the gut of this female. “The obstruction is a pulse grenade, modified with a contact trigger.”

“That’s impossible,” the Omorr snapped. “Jarn, if she had that sort of grenade in her belly, she would have exploded the first time she took a deep breath or bent over.”

“The grenade is encased in an organic material that quickly decays and dissolves once it’s placed inside the body,” I explained. “The process creates a significant echogenic arc of air around the grenade.” I didn’t bother explaining the trigger. If I did, he would insist I leave.

“If you bleed the air pocket or touch the grenade with any instrument, it could blow,” Squilyp said.

“No.” Memories from the rebellion rushed through me. Acrid smoke hanging in frigid clouds. Wet, red ice. Kneeling beside a rebel who had bitten through his lips to keep from screaming. Like all Iisleg men, he believed if he showed bravery, he would be given a second chance to live. He had died three minutes later. “I know what this is. What it does.”

“Then you know you can’t remove it,” he added. “Close the patient and get out of there.”

“I don’t have to touch it.” I held out my glove. “Mesentery clamp.”

“Jarn.”

“We’ll have to think up a new name for this procedure, Senior Healer,” I said as I clamped off the segment of bowel I intended to vivisect. “What do you think of gastric grenade bypass?”

“I think I should be addressing you as Cherijo,” Squilyp said sourly. “You’ve become as reckless as she was.”

“Gastric suction tube. This is not reckless. You should have seen how we often we were forced to remove live ordnance from the wounded during the war. Sometimes we had to use blades and our hands, right there on the battlefield.” I made a tiny incision and inserted the tube through the upper chamber of the stomach to evacuate the contents of the lower chamber. “The patient should be scheduled for gastric reconstruction as soon as she is stable. I will perform the procedure.”

“Stop her from blowing us all to the moons,” Squilyp said. “Then we will worry about who rebuilds her stomach.”

“Indeed. Bypass setter.” I applied the large, vise-like instrument to the division between the divided stomach, and tightened the grip until it effectively clamped off the lower chamber. “Fill the specimen container with suspension gel,” I told the drone as I brought down the lascalpel and adjusted the beam. Before I made the final cut, I asked Squilyp, “Has everyone left the facility?”

“Everyone but us.”

I quickly changed my gloves and sterilized the outside surfaces to remove any possible trace of my DNA. “I am removing the grenade now.” I cut the stomach in half, and then did the same to the clamped-off section of bowel on the other side of the bulging valve. Once I had resolved the severed vessels on either end, I carefully extracted the vivisected section in which the grenade remained lodged. Dull yellow streaked the entire section, and silver-blue, viscous liquid streaked the green blood dripping from either end. “Specimen container.”

The drone presented the open container to me, and I carefully lowered the section and immersed it in the suspension gel. The smell of the device made my eyes water and sting.

“I’m sending out the drone,” I told the Omorr. “Advise security that the grenade is leaking heavily.”

“Aruntanic fluid?”

“Yes. They must take it to be detonated immediately.” With the drone gone, I had to pick up my own instruments, and I groped for hemostat. “Can you come and assist me now, Senior Healer?”

The Omorr didn’t reply, but hopped into the suite a few minutes later, properly scrubbed, gowned and masked. “How is she?” he asked as I momentarily lowered the sterile field for him.

“Young and strong. If there are no complications from the vivisection or the arutanic fluid, and we can grow her another lower stomach chamber, she will survive. Clamp.” I stopped the resection as a muffled blast from outside the facility caused a shimmer in the curtain of energy around us. “Security?”

“Militia.” Squilyp eyed the view panel. “They sent in a combat munitions unit with a blast-absorption dome.”

Since the building still stood, I assumed they had deliberately detonated the grenade. “How often do Jorenians present as living bombs?”

“Never in my experience.” His dark eyes narrowed as he inspected the abdominal cavity for a moment. “Jarn, this was not an accident.”

“I agree,” I said as I began suturing again. “But who would do this, and why?”

“That is what I would like to know,” the cool, unemotional voice of my husband, Duncan Reever, said over my ear piece.

Copyright 2007-2008 by Sheila Kelly
All rights reserved.

2007-12-09T07:58:00.000-05:00

2007-11-18T11:03:00.000-05:00

Workplace/sleeping baby warning: This slide show is accompanied by music.

2007-08-21T11:02:00.000-04:00

Worthy
a short story of the Darkyn
by Lynn Viehl

“Wake up, Juliana.”

I did that as soon I felt blunt fingertips trace the curve of my right shoulder. Eric Locke’s hands were almost as wicked as his mouth, which had also been over most of my body. Even now, with my body still warm and damp from him, I wanted more.

Not that I was going to feed his ego by telling him that. “What time is it?”

“Three a.m. Come on, Jules.” He brushed my cheek with some strands of my hair. “Open those pretty eyes for me.”

I wanted a kiss, not a tickle, so I kept them closed. “I thought you left.”

“I came back.” Air cooled my bare skin as he pulled down the sheet covering me. “Did you miss me?”

“I was asleep.” I reached for him.

“Greedy thing.” He scooped me up in his arms.

Before tonight, I’d never invited Locke to my home. He lived in mansions and penthouses and skyscrapers; I rented a tiny cottage on the beach. We didn’t even date; we just got together for coffee sometimes. We’d met in at a Starbucks. He’d noticed me sketching, brought over two lattes and started talking to me.

How had he gotten back in? I wondered. He didn’t have a key, so I’d have to bitch at him for leaving my door unlocked. Tomorrow.

“Are you falling asleep again?” Eric asked as he carried me out of the bedroom.

I stopped playing coy girl and looked up at him. I had no business getting involved with him, of course. I’d Googled his name and found out he’d made billions from the pharmaceutical company he’d inherited from his parents. Guys like Eric were so far out of my league we didn’t even know, much less frequent, the same ballparks. Still, I’d been lonely, and it wasn’t as if we were going to the chapel or anything.

I nuzzled his neck. Eric always smelled like leather and bourbon and espresso; a lovely rich-man smell. “Where are you taking me?”

“It’s a surprise.” He carried me down the hall.

“Is it a good one?”

“The best.”

I nipped his ear lobe. I liked the way he tasted; he had the cleanest, smoothest, most flawless skin of any man I’d ever known. Earlier tonight I’d had a terrible urge to bite him somewhere it showed and leave a mark to warn off other women. Next thing you know I’ll be squatting to piss on the bumper of his Hummer. “You know when we met? Why did you come over and talk to me?”

“You interested me.”

“Why?” That night I’d worn my oldest T-shirt and shorts, both sweat-stained and filthy from a day of housecleaning. Eric had treated me as if I’d been wearing Chanel and silk. Far as I knew, his eyes and nose worked.

He looked down at me. “I saw you and I knew you were the one.”

Eric had this smile, too. It promised things. Things that made me feel goofy and awkward. I’d spilled latte all over my sketch, that first night.

He didn’t stop at the bathroom, but kept going. I considered asking him to toss me on the nearest flat surface to save time. As he pushed the kitchen door open with his shoulder, I lifted my head. “Are we going to do it on the table?” I’d have to clear off the bowl of fruit on it, unless he wanted to get kinky again with the grapes. I was willing, as long as we counted them this time.

He bent his head down and kissed the end of my nose. “Guess again.”

I giggled, until he opened the back door and carried me out into my postage stamp of a yard. I had no privacy fence, and there were always tourists and retirees wandering the stretch of beach in front of my cottage at all hours.

“Eric, put me down. One of the condo commandoes will see my bare ass and call the cops.” I tried to wiggle free, but he tightened his arms around me. I turned my head, and saw strangers waiting by a long black limo.

Strangers with guns in their hands. And the limo’s trunk was open.

I chose my next words pretty carefully. “Eric? Who are those guys? What’s going on?”

“I have to be sure.” He shifted his left arm and clamped a hand over my mouth, so hard that the edge of my teeth cut into the inside of my lips. “Be worthy, Jules,” he whispered against my ear. “Be worthy and save me.”

I fought, twisting and kicking my legs, but he had a good grip on me. I sank my teeth into the fleshy part of his palm, and he swore and yanked his hand away. Before I could drag in enough air to scream, he dumped me into the open trunk, and drove his fist into my jaw.

Locke was strong; it was like getting smacked with a sledgehammer. My teeth jammed together, my neck snapped back, and the inside of my head exploded with fire and pain. A freight train of rushing, pounding sound drove from one of my ears to the other.

Everything went from there to black.

I didn’t know how long I was knocked out, but I came to in a hurry. A gallon of cold water in the face helped. As I choked and sputtered and coughed, icy rivulets ran down the front of me. I was still naked, but two sets of hard hands kept me from sagging to the ground. Electricity buzzed faintly from some overhead fixtures. Water dripping into my eyes blurred the harsh light.

I didn’t know where I was, but it felt like a place to die.

“You know why they mark them?” Locke’s voice asked somewhere close to me. “Because they can’t bite through a dog collar.”

Men laughed.

I squeezed my eyelids shut a few times, until I cleared the water from my eyes and could see where he’d brought me. It appeared to be a warehouse of some kind, big and mostly empty. Near a marina, maybe; I smelled sea water and gasoline. A large group of men formed an uneven ring around me. Some were wearing street clothes, but others were dressed like priests. Two of the guys in black cassocks had me wedged between them, and held my arms curled up behind my back.

Priests or not, every single man there watched me, like I was rolled in chocolate and covered in free diamonds.

“They do have outstanding taste in females.” Locke moved into the circle of light, and reached out to me. I thought he’d hit me, but he ran his hand down the front of my wet body instead. He took his time, drawing it out, stopping here and there to squeeze with appreciation. “She’s like a Porsche with two legs. Quick, strong, responsive as hell.”

I waited until his face was close enough, then I lunged. Before I could break his nose with my skull, the men on either side of me jerked my arms up, so hard and high I doubled over in agony.

“Don’t hurt her. Not yet.” Locke got close again, and his voice went all gentle and soft, the way it had after sex. “Juliana, baby. Look at me.”

I couldn’t get my feet planted squarely on the water-slick floor, and the hold they had on my arms was about to pop some sockets or splinter some bones. I wouldn’t lift my head, so he used a handful of my dripping hair and made me.

“That’s better,” he said. “Now, I want you to tell me the truth. Where is your master?”

I tried to make sense of what he was asking. “Master?” Was this some sort of bizarre sex game he was playing? “I don’t understand.”

“The vampire.” He caressed my cheek. “These men want him. Just tell them where Shamaras is.”

A vampire? “I don’t know anyone like that,” I said, hiding my shock. How could Eric have
known . . .?

Locke made a casual gesture, and one of the smaller guys dressed in street clothes stepped forward. He was a head shorter than me, with skinny arms and stubby legs, and close-cut hair so red it looked fake. He set down his beer bottle and pulled off his dingy t-shirt, exposing a narrow, white torso crisscrossed with old scars. He began swinging his arms and twisting from side to side, warming up.

“Listen, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know any vampires or anyone named Shamaras.” I looked past him to the other men. “Please, someone, help me. I swear to God—”

“Blasphemer.” Locke put a hand on my throat, lifted me off my feet, and shook me like a kitten. He wasn’t talking sexy anymore. “Where is the jardin? Where is Shamaras?”

I didn’t tell him, even when he put me down and I could breathe. There was nothing to tell.

Red started slapping me while Locke repeated his questions over and over. I didn’t know the answers. If I said nothing, Red slapped me. If I told him I didn’t know, another slap. The men holding me kept me on my feet, and when I sagged, one of them grabbed my hair at the back of my head and used it to jerk me up straight.

By the time the guys holding me were sweating freely, and my face felt like it was three sizes bigger and on fire, I heard Locke sigh. “Tie her up.”

More hands grabbed me and forced me over to a steel shelf unit. Rope bit into my wrists, ankles, and waist as they knotted me in place.

The other men had a good look and then backed up a few steps. That was when I saw the drain in the floor and a coil of hose.

They needed a hose?

“Eric.” My tongue hurt where my teeth had cut into it. “I would tell you if I knew where the jardin or this Shamaras was. I don’t. Please stop hurting me.”

Red stepped in front of me, and rolled his head and shoulders along with his arms, really loosening up this time.

“You’re lying.” He turned to Red. “Nothing permanent.”

Before I could ask what that meant, the little bastard punched me in the face, pulling back just enough to keep from breaking my jaw. My head slammed back against the metal shelf behind it. I saw little fat white stars orbit my head, just like in cartoons.

“Where is Shamaras? Where is the jardin?”

The beating progressed from there. Red punched me in the face, chest, and belly. When I blacked out the first time, someone doused me with another bucket of cold water. It streamed off me, washing away the drips and dribbles of blood from my mouth and nose.

The world turned into pain, cold water, and more pain.

Locke had me beaten for what seemed like hours. I stopped trying to dodge the blows or brace myself. I passed every threshold of pain and discovered some new ones. I babbled, I sobbed, I begged him to stop. I offered him everything I had if he would just stop hurting me. Then I vomited up everything in my stomach.

I knew then that I would die here. Eric was going to have me beaten to death.

Eventually dousing me with the water stopped working, and I reached a place where the pain walled me inside my own head. I barely felt Red punching me anymore. It wouldn’t be long now.

Someone cut the ropes, and I hit the floor. The sticky puddle under me smelled like copper and urine. I couldn’t move, and I hurt so much that I prayed that I would die, right there and then. But Locke picked me up in his arms again.

He gave me his slow, want-you smile again, as if we were back at my place and I wasn’t dying all over his Armani jacket. “You did it, Jules,” he whispered. “You’re truly worthy.”

I dropped down into the dark, thinking, Oh, God, he isn’t going to kill me.

I didn’t wake up again until Locke dumped me back in the trunk of the limo. The cold little click of the gun he had taken out of his jacket was a thousand times more effective than the buckets of icy water.

My new lover stood over the open trunk, but he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking to the side and talking to someone. The roaring in my ears made it hard to hear what he was saying.

“It’s obvious that she’ll never talk.” Eric pointed the gun at my head. “More torture is pointless. She has to pay for betraying humanity.”

I hadn’t betrayed anyone, but he still shot me.

#

“Miss?” A tired man’s voice woke me up. “Can you hear me, Miss?”

I could hear him, and he wasn’t Eric, but that meant nothing.

“I will take her,” a second, deeper man’s voice said.

Take me where? I wanted to see who was talking, but my eyelids wouldn’t cooperate.

“Not yet.” Fingers touched my wrist and pressed. “Her blood pressure is still too low.”

After the beating I’d taken I expected to feel horrible pain, but my body only ached. I couldn’t breathe through my nose, and I tasted blood in my mouth, but that was all. I kept still anyway. After what I’d been through, playing possum for a few minutes seemed wiser. My eyelids agreed.

“How long before she can be moved?” The deep voice asked.

“I don’t know,” the tired man sounded fretful now. “I think there could be complications.”

“She was dying. We had no choice.”

While they argued about when to move me, I took inventory of myself from the inside. Eric’s thug had pounded my face good – my jaw felt like a rock, and my nose was probably broken – but he hadn’t stopped there. My chest, ribs, and belly hurt just as much. My right shoulder burned. The floaty, who-gives-a-damn frame of mind with which I accepted all that told me that I’d already been given some pretty decent drugs.

But why was I still alive? Last thing I remembered, Eric had shot me in the head. I barely stopped myself from clapping a hand to my face to feel for a bullet hole.

“Look at the bruises on her neck,” Tired Voice said, and something made of metal rattled. “Signs of intercourse, but no trace of semen. She didn’t come from one of their breeding centers.”

Absently I thought of all the condoms Locke and I had gone through tonight. The hell with men. If I survived this, I’d stick with vibrators and Russell Crowe movies.

Heavy footsteps paced the floor to my right. “What about the gunshot wound?”

“It’s closed.” A sheet covered my breasts. “Fortunately the bullet only grazed her shoulder.”

Locke hadn’t shot me in the head? I forced my swollen eyelids apart. Light blinded me for a second, and then I could see.

“There,” Tired Voice said. “She’s coming around.”

I was naked, flat on my back and draped with a light, silky sheet. Two strange men stood over me, one in a blood-stained white lab coat, the other in a dark suit. They didn’t look like Locke’s men, but Eric probably bought people like rich girls shopped for shoes. He was also completely insane. I wasn’t going to be safe until I changed my name, dyed my hair and put several thousand miles between me and Fort Lauderdale. Tonight.

“How do you feel, Miss?”

“Terrible.” I tried to sit up, but they had me strapped down.

“Don’t try to move.” The man in the lab coat had the tired voice. “I’m Dr. Gregory.” He didn’t introduce the other man.

Better play stupid for a few minutes. “Where am I?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Gregory used a light to check my eyes. “You’re safe.”

“Who did this to you?” the other man asked.

It didn’t matter? I was safe? Were they kidding? I shifted, moving my arms and legs. They weren’t broken, but my muscles felt sore, overused. I kept expecting the pain to get worse, but it was receding. After what Red had done to me, how was that possible?

The man in the suit repeated his question.

“I don’t know,” I lied. “How badly am I hurt?”

“You have some contusions and lacerations to your face and upper torso, a minor gunshot wound gazing your shoulder, and there are indications that you were sexually assaulted,” the doctor said as he inspected my ears.

“I wasn’t raped,” I said, trying to think of an explanation that wouldn’t have me Baker-acted. “I . . . I was with someone. It was consensual.”

Gregory clicked off his pen light. “Do you usually let your lover beat the daylights out of you after sex?”

“I’m trying to quit smoking.” I shifted and winced. “Is there something sticking in my back?”

“I don’t think so.” Gentle hands removed some of the straps and lifted me. I heard the doctor took in a sharp breath. “My lord, she bears your mark.”

My lord? What mark?

“All right, tresora. You don’t need to lie anymore.” The light clicked off and Gregory leaned close. “Were you abducted? Who is your instructor? What is your bloodline?”

“I don’t know.” Fresh horror settled over me as I realized that these two might be as crazy as Locke. “How did I get here? Did you call the police?”

“You know that the police can’t be involved,” the doctor said. “I found you in the garden here. Who did you have call me? How could you endanger the master like this?”

“She did not ask to be beaten,” the man in the suit chided. To me he said, “Who did this to you, girl?”

“My name is Juliana.” I had to get out of here. “Please take the rest of these straps off. I’ve been tied up enough for one night.”

He did, although very reluctantly, and helped me sit up. I didn’t recognize the bedroom I occupied, but it looked like something straight out of the pages of Art & Antiques. A vague memory crept into my head, that of a hand pushing something between my swollen, split lips. Pills of some kind.

I know it hurts, Jules. A kiss on my forehead. I had to be sure you were worthy. He expects only the best. He eased a hand around my throat. Now swallow.

I swallowed and, when he asked me to, showed him my empty mouth.

Very good. He’ll give me what I need this time. He draped me with his jacket. I have to set up the trade. Rest now. He moved back and slammed the trunk shut, leaving me there in the dark.

I waited until I heard his footsteps disappear, and then I used his jack to pry open the trunk from the inside. I stumbled away in the dark, wrapping myself in the jacket, forcing my legs to move until the drugs kicked in. I stopped to rest against a tree . . .

The memory ended there.

“Juliana?” A bigger, stronger hand closed over mine, and I smelled something like incense. “Tell me what you remember.”

Without hesitation, I told him everything. I described Eric, and how we’d met. I recounted every moment of the past night and everything I had seen. I told him how we’d made love, the bizarre things Eric had said and done, and even how it had made me feel, to be so helpless. I told that man things I wouldn’t have told a shrink, my best friend or the police. Yet the words came pouring out of me without hesitation.

“Eric has lost his mind,” I warned the man in the suit. “If he finds me, I think he’ll kill me.”

He nodded his head, which I saw was completely bald. “He will not touch you again. This I promise you.” He reached out and touched my wounded shoulder. “Who marked you, Juliana?”

“There’s no . . . you mean my cameo?” When he nodded, I frowned. “I almost drowned once, when I was a little kid. I got caught in a rip current. This old man rescued me, but when we got to the beach he had a heart attack and died. He had a beautiful black cameo tattooed on his chest. When I grew up and went to get a tattoo with some friends, I thought I’d get one just like his. To sort of thank him for saving me. I sketched it and gave it to the artist.” I saw him exchange a look with the doctor. “What?”

“You have a very good memory,” the man in the suit said.

“We can’t stay here, my lord.” Gregory checked his watch. “I will take her to the hospital and admit her under another name. We can have her moved to another part of the country. The seigneur—”

“No,” the man in the suit said. “She is innocent. I know Locke. Desperation has driven him mad.”

“Actually I’m okay with leaving.” Waiting around here seemed about as stupid as hooking up with Eric, who could walk in any minute and start shooting all of us. I wrapped myself up in the sheet and slid off the bed. After a few queasy moments, I started for the door.

Gregory stepped in front of me. “You can’t leave here wearing only a sheet. He could still be out there, looking for you.”

“That’s why I’m leaving. Please give me some clothes.” When he didn’t move, I stepped around him. “Where is the telephone?”

One of the windows exploded inward as something came hurtling through it. Gregory shoved me to the floor and covered my body with his. The man in the suit walked toward the window and looked through it, his shoulders twitching.

Just as the doctor pushed himself off me and helped me up, Eric and Red came into the room.

“You can’t have her yet,” Eric said to the man in the suit. His voice sounded nasal, and I saw he was wearing nose plugs. “You have to pay for her, Shamaras.”

This man was Shamaras? Eric had sold me to him?

“Mr. Locke,” Shamaras said, “As I have told you before, I cannot help you.”

“There’s no more time for these games. All I want are three pints of blood. It won’t kill you, but it will save my life.” Eric waved one of his guns at me. “She’s worth it, I promise. I tested her thoroughly. She kept up her façade before the Brethren during the interrogation. She’s beautifully trained. She will protect you with her life. Now I want payment.”

“She is not tresori, Mr. Locke,” Shamaras told him. “She knows nothing of the Brethren or us. You cannot sell her to me.”

“She has the mark.” Eric’s face twisted with rage. “I saw it myself. She is worthy of you, Shamaras.”

“It does not matter what she is,” Shamaras said. “My blood will not cure your cancer. It will only poison you.”

“You’re lying. I read the old scrolls, I know the blood price,” Eric shouted. “Her life for mine. Now, give me the blood.”

“Carpet,” Gregory murmured.

I looked down. The edge of a big Persian carpet lay in front of us. Eric was standing on the other end. I glanced at the doctor, who gave me a slight nod. Together we dropped down, grabbed the edge of the carpet and jerked it up, sending Eric staggering back into Red.

Shamaras shoved past the doctor and me as he crossed the room, faster than I’d ever seen anyone move, and knocked the guns out of Eric’s hands. I screamed as Red stabbed him in the chest with a knife. Metal snapped, and I saw Red pull back and stare at the broken blade. Shamaras picked him up by the front of his shirt and tossed him across the room. Red bounced off a wall, fell to the floor and stayed there.

“You can’t cheat me,” Eric said, pulling out another knife, one made of dark metal. He whipped it at Shamaras, slashing his face. “If you won’t give me the blood, I’ll take it.”

Shamaras’s mouth opened, and two long, sharp white fangs flashed. The cut across his cheek and nose closed like a Ziploc bag and vanished. “You may try.”

I picked up one of the guns and aimed it at him, then at Shamaras. “I’ve had enough,” I told them both. “Doctor, get me a telephone. I’m calling the police.”

“It’s all right, Juliana,” Gregory said, his voice soothing. “I can take of this and no one will get hurt. Just give me the gun.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Eric said. “He’ll shoot me. The bullets in my gun are copper. It’s the only thing that kills vampires. All you have to do is shoot Shamaras in the head or the heart.”

Eric had nearly killed me. Gregory worked for Shamaras, the vampire. Who did I trust?

No one.

"Back up, Shamaras,” I said. “Eric, put down the knife.”

Locke’s black eyes shifted toward me, and he smiled. “Don’t worry, baby. I enjoyed fucking you. After I go through the change, you can serve me instead of him.” He turned and lifted the knife, and Shamaras lunged at him.

I pulled the trigger.

#

The next morning I woke up in my bed, and thought for a few seconds that it had all been a terrible nightmare, until I saw the bandages and fading bruises. The morning paper carried the story of the unidentified man who had been found shot to death in a wealthy West Palm Beach neighborhood. Police were asking for help in identifying the body.

After I read the article, I spent the rest of the day throwing up.

I stayed inside the cottage until I didn’t look like the poster girl for battered women. No one came to question me, and the paper abruptly stopped carrying articles about the unidentified shooting victim. The first thing I did when I went out was to go to a gun shop. I intended to buy a handgun for my own protection, but the sight of them made me remembering the shooting. Sick with shame, I went to the hardware store, bought extra locks for the doors and windows and barricaded myself in the cottage. I thought about going to the police or seeing a shrink. But who would believe my story? And how could I explain the fact that I had shot a man to death?

I went back to work, selling my paintings to the local gift shops, and gradually the worst of the fear faded. The guilt remained, though, and knotted inside me. No matter how hard I tried to justify what I had done, I had killed a man. I couldn’t sleep, and I started walking on the beach at night, trying to make sense out of what I remembered.

That was where he found me. He came out of nowhere, appearing at my side and walking with me. As if nothing had happened.

I didn’t see much point in running away, or talking to him. So we walked.

After a few minutes, he asked, “Are you well, Juliana?”

What a stupid question. “No.”

“It was not your fault,” he said. “You should not blame yourself.”

I stopped and looked up at him. “What do you want from me?”

“I have taken enough.” He studied my face. “Why didn’t you kill me?”

I started heading back for the cottage, but then I stopped and turned around to face him. “The old man who pulled me out of the ocean said one thing to me before he died. Your name. He smiled when he said it.”

“He was my friend.”

I wrapped my arms around my waist. “He’s the reason that I didn’t shoot you.” Let him figure that out, because I certainly couldn’t.

“I see.” He stared at me, his face shadowed. “This is not finished between us, Juliana.”

I had the same feeling. “It is for tonight.” I walked away. Just before I went inside the cottage, I looked back.

Shamaras still stood there, watching me.

2007-06-11T00:19:00.003-04:00

Familiar
By Lynn Viehl

The car accident killed everyone but me, and I was in a coma for a couple months. While the doctors tried to sew my brain back together, they buried my mom, dad, brother and the drunken attorney who smashed his Mercedes into our Taurus. My uncle told me later that he went to the attorney’s funeral so he could spit on his grave.

“I would have, too, sweetheart,” Uncle Jimmy said, “only the line was so long, and they let all the ones who wanted to piss on it go first.”

My uncle never really went anywhere after the accident. He quit his job and spent every day and night with me at the hospital, holding my hand and talking to me. He had them bring food to my room, one of the nurses told me later, and slept in the armchair next to my bed. He did all that for eleven weeks, six days, fourteen hours and nine minutes straight, without a break.

When I asked him why, all he said was, “I wanted my face to be the first thing you saw when you woke up.”

Not that I would ever tell my uncle, but the first thing I saw when I woke up was a dove sitting outside the window of my room. I heard a very sweet voice say I think she’s snapping out of it, Red and Uncle Jimmy leaned over, his tired, whiskery face beaming.

“There’s my girl,” he said, his voice a rusty saw. “How you doin’, Rache?”

I didn’t remember much, but I found out I was doing pretty well. The hole in my head had already healed, so a week after I came out of it the doctors let Uncle Jimmy take me home. He had told me about Mom, Dad and Mickey in the hospital, but it really didn’t hit me until he carried me into the house. His black and silver German Shepherd, Roscoe, came to meet us at the door, but other than the dog the house was empty.

“What did you do with Roscoe while I was at the hospital?” I asked him.

“My neighbor, Dan, took care of him. But he missed me, didn’t you boy?” Uncle Jimmy put me on the sofa, and then gave Roscoe a good scratching all up and down his back. The dog’s tail wagged like crazy.

I felt weird. I knew my family was dead, but a part of me still expected to see Mom to come smiling out of the kitchen, and Dad to be snoring in his Lazy Boy. My brother should have been in the back yard kicking a soccer ball into his practice net, or playing Halo on his computer.

“They’re really gone,” I said to my uncle. I hadn’t cried in the hospital – too many lights, too many strangers around – but now I couldn’t help the tears. “They’re never coming back.”

My uncle sat down beside me and pulled me into a hug, and I felt Roscoe lick my hand. I heard him say It’ll be all right, doll face and We’ll take good care of you a couple of times while I cried.

I didn’t know why he kept saying we when it was only me and him, but I held on.

#

Over the next couple of weeks my uncle helped me catch up with my schoolwork so I could finish out my junior year with the rest of my class. He didn’t have to go back to work, not with all the insurance money that came in, but he told me he wouldn’t touch a penny of it.

“This is for your college and your future,” Uncle Jimmy said when he showed me the check. He explained how my Dad had taken out a big policy years ago to provide for my mom and us in case something happened to him. “I filed a lawsuit against the attorney’s estate, too, and we’re going to win. When that’s settled, you’ll be set for life.”

I didn’t care about the money. “I can’t spend all this, Uncle Jimmy. You should take half of it.”

“And do what? Retire?” He made a face. “I’m only thirty-two, kid.”

Uncle Jimmy was younger than my father, and a lot wilder, according to my mom, but he had the same coal black hair and laser blue eyes. In that moment he looked so much like Dad that it made a sob catch in my throat.

“Hey. Hey.” He put his hand to my cheek. “We’re gonna be okay, Rache. We don’t need to worry about the money now. You go back to school, I’ll work, and Roscoe can do the laundry.”

It worked out. Uncle Jimmy didn’t try to be my mom or my dad; he was just there for me. He worked while I was in school, and came home every night to watch TV, tinker on his pickup truck, or play catch in the backyard with Roscoe, who was still mostly puppy. He mowed and took the trash out and took care of the laundry for Roscoe.

After we got comfortable living together, he invited his girlfriend, Lydia Herman, over to meet me. Lydia was nice. Her father, Pat, owned the garage where my uncle worked, and she got Uncle Jimmy his job back after I came home from the hospital.

“See, this is what you would look like if you were a girl,” Lydia told my uncle as she gestured at me. “She looks so much like you she could be your daughter.”

She was exaggerating a little; my uncle was gorgeous and I was just average. Besides, my eyes were the same color as my mom’s: Easter bunny brown, my dad always said. I did wonder what it would be like to be as blonde, tanned and busty as Lydia. She looked like she’d stepped right off the set of Bay Watch.

Lydia always made dinner when she came over, which spared Uncle Jimmy from having to eat my lousy cooking. I still did my usual chores, and dusted, vacuumed and kept the house tidy. Mostly I spent a lot of time in my room, especially when Lydia was around. I felt like a third wheel, plus Roscoe didn’t really like her, so I’d take him in my room with me.

At first I had a lot of nightmares about the accident. I’d wake up screaming for my mother, and Uncle Jimmy would come running, and then I’d cry all over him. I never remembered what happened in the morning. My uncle finally took me to the doctor, who gave me a prescription for sleeping pills and suggested I get some counseling.

“Try the pills first,” Uncle Jimmy said. “They don’t work, then we’ll go see a shrink."

I only took one pill, which made me gag because I hated swallowing them. I threw the bottle away the next day, but luckily I stopped having the nightmares about a week after that.

There were some minor problems, living with Uncle Jimmy. Like this thing he had about making my lunch every day. Lydia got him started on it when she found out I usually bought my lunch at school.

“They count ketchup as a vegetable, Jimmy,” she said. She was a vegetarian and into the whole nutrition thing. “Rachel is a growing girl. She needs three healthy meals every day.”

They meant well, but I’d outgrown apples, milk and PB&J sandwiches with the crusts cut off in the fifth grade. I usually trashed the lunch Uncle Jimmy made me at school, but sometimes I forgot and had to dump my lunch bag at home. That’s what I was doing when it happened.

I came in through the kitchen door, dropped my backpack on the table, and took my lunch bag over to the garbage can.

You’ve got to eat, kiddo, a voice that was nothing like my uncle’s said. You’re starting to look like a stick bug.

I turned around fast, my lunch bag hitting the floor, but Uncle Jimmy wasn’t there. In fact, no one was in the kitchen but me.

I glanced up at the ceiling. I wasn’t religious, but – “God? Are you there?”

God’s a little busy right now, doll face. The deep voice laughed, and added, I wish you could hear me. I’d give you an earful.

“I can hear you,” I said.

“I got off work early today, sweetheart,” my uncle said as he came in. “I thought we’d hit the bowling alley.” He eyed the bag at my feet. “What’s this? You not eating your lunch?”

“I wasn’t hungry today,” I lied. “Were you just talking to me?”

“No one else here.” He spread his hands. “It’s just you and me, Rache. You okay?”

“I think so.” I bent down to pick up the bag and saw Roscoe sitting under the kitchen table. “Does Roscoe like PB&J?”

Roscoe wedged his snout between his paws at the same time the voice said You can keep the peanut butter, doll face, but I’d kill for a slice of bacon.

“That dog only wants one thing,” my uncle said as he opened the fridge and took out a zip-lock bag filled with the leftover bacon from breakfast. “Here, boy.”

Roscoe got up, trotted over and sat in front of my uncle. I jumped as I heard the voice say I cannot believe the stuff I have to do to get a decent snack.

“Sit pretty,” Uncle Jimmy said as he took out a piece of bacon and held it over Roscoe’s head.

The dog sat up on his hind legs like a kangaroo, his front paws crossed in front of him. My uncle laughed and fed him the bacon.

I couldn’t be hearing the dog talk. Dogs didn’t talk. And as I thought that, Roscoe looked at me with his big dark eyes.

She can’t be hearing my thoughts. First timers can’t hear our thoughts.

“What’s a first timer?” I asked.

Roscoe fell over, let out a screech, scrambled to his feet and ran out of the kitchen.

“A first-timer at what, honey?” my uncle wanted to know.

#

I found Roscoe hiding under the bed in my parents’ room.

“You might as well come out of there,” I told him. “I’m not leaving until you talk to me again.”

I can’t talk, kid. I can only think. You’re not supposed to be able to hear me. Go away. Pretend like it never happened.

“I’m seventeen, I’m not a kid.” I sat down on the floor and stared at my sneakers. “Uncle Jimmy’s never gonna going to believe this.”

Hold it right there. You can’t tell Jimmy. You can’t tell anyone. Roscoe crawled out from under the bed and sat next to me. He looked me right in the eye, the way a person would. I don’t get it. This isn’t supposed to be happening. You’re a first-timer.

His lips weren’t moving, but I could hear the voice as if he were speaking to me. “What’s a first-timer?” I asked again.

You are. This is the first time you’ve lived. Your first soul, your first life. You’re human. That makes you a first-timer.

My head started to pound. “So what’s the big deal with that?”

So the big deal is, first-timers can’t hear us.

“Us?” There were more than him?

Roscoe started pacing back and forth in front of me. You’re supposed to live your first life alone in your head, so it can shape your soul. If your first life is cut short, you might come back as a familiar. Then you can hear everyone else.

“Come back? Familiar with what?”

No, a familiar. Like me.

“I’m going to die and come back as a dog?” I started laughing. “I don’t think so.”

Only if you die young, with a complete soul, and some other stuff, Roscoe told me. And only if you want to.

That’s when it hit me, and I grabbed Roscoe’s collar. “What about my mom and dad? What about Mickey? Did they come back? Where are they?”

They can’t come back yet, Rachel. There are rules. We can’t be familiar with anyone from our first lives. Maybe in fifty or sixty years . . . He lowered his head and rested his chin against my hand. I’m sorry.

“Just my luck.” I let him go and wiped away some tears. “So I live with a talking dog who thinks he was reincarnated. Or I’m turning into Dr. Doolittle. Or I’m going crazy.”

Which was worse?

I got up and sat down on my mother’s side of my parents’ bed. Her pillow felt cool against my hot cheek, and I could smell roses. Mom used a rose-scented lotion on her skin after her bath. I buried my face in her pillow. Mom was gone, and I was losing my mind.

You’re not crazy, Rachel, Roscoe said, growling a little. Your brains are just a little scrambled. Look, I’ll talk to some of my friends, see what we can come up with. He headed for the door, and then stopped and glanced back at me. Don’t go anywhere, and whatever you do, don’t tell Jimmy. He trotted out.

I couldn’t lay there forever. I got up, washed my face, and went downstairs. Uncle Jimmy was sitting in my dad’s armchair watching Monday Night football.

“I ordered in Chinese,” he said as I walked by. “It’s on the table if you’re hungry.”

I wondered what he would say if I told him his dog was talking to me telepathically. And not just me. What had Roscoe said? I’ll talk to some of my friends . . . “Where’s the dog?”

“Roscoe? I let him out to pee.”

I walked through the kitchen, past the containers of Chinese and out onto the back steps. Roscoe wasn’t peeing; he was sitting on the grass under our oak tree. Around him were Mrs. Blankenship’s Siamese, Mr. Varney’s Sheltie, a cardinal, and a gray dove.

His friends? I let the door close, and they all looked over at me.

She’s definitely human, a cool female voice said, and somehow I knew it was coming from the Siamese. She sounded as snotty as she looked. You’re certain that she could hear your exact thoughts? She wasn’t transferring her emotions onto you and simply got lucky?

Dude, does it matter? That came from the Sheltie, who had a voice like a surfer. If she can hear us, she’s like one of us.

She’s not a familiar, the cardinal said. He sounded like a grumpy old man. This could be a punishment.

We watched them revive her at the hospital, the dove said in the same sweet female voice I’d heard when I came out of the coma. Her soul did leave her body for a few minutes.

It could have been the head injury, the Siamese pointed out. That might have rewired some things.

I'd heard enough, so I walked over. “Do you guys always talk about people in front of them, like we’re not even here?”

Why not? The Siamese sniffed at my foot before gazing up at me with her cool blue eyes. You humans can’t hear our thoughts. Or, at least, none of the other first-timers can.

“Well, for your information, I’m not transferring my emotions,” I told her. “Or getting lucky. I can hear you. I can hear every one of you. Every word you say, right inside my head.”

I don’t like this. The cardinal hopped backward, away from me. It’s bizarre.

So she’s two-legged, dude. So are you. Don’t blow a gasket. The Sheltie came over and nudged my hand. Hey, I’m Brownie. How’s it going?

The cardinal flapped its wings. We’re not supposed to have this sort of contact with humans. It goes against the natural order of things. Make her go back inside, Roscoe.

No can do, Red. Roscoe eyed me. I think we're stuck with her.

#

Roscoe filled me in on the rest when he took me for a long walk that evening. That was how they saw it, anyway.

You’re so slow, Roscoe complained, tugging at the leash. Come on, girl, get a move on.

I had to trot to keep up with him. “If you used to be human, how come you don’t mind wearing a leash, and eating dog food, and peeing outside?”

I’m a dog now. I don’t remember much about being human, except that I loved bacon. Roscoe came to a stop at a corner. Dog food isn’t bad. And I peed outside when I was a human. Guys do that, you know.

“Guys are pigs,” I informed him. “So you really wanted to come back as a dog?”

No, that’s predetermined. Anyone who protects others during their first life comes back as a dog. Brownie was a lifeguard.

"What was Red? And what about pigs? What were they?"

Red was cardinal. You know, the church kind. You're a girl, you don't want to know what pigs were. Hang on. Roscoe paused to lift his leg and pee on a fire hydrant.

“I’m guessing you weren’t a fire fighter.”

No, I was a Marine. Compared to us, firemen are pussies.

I beg your pardon. Dorothy, the Siamese I’d met in the backyard, strolled up to us. What was that?

Oh, evening, Dottie. Roscoe looked a little embarrassed. No offense.

“Were you a fireman?” I asked the cat.

God, no. She lifted a paw and delicately licked it. I was a writer. All creative souls come back as felines.

“Were you a famous writer?”

Only after I died. A shame I can't collect the royalties. Dorothy went to the curb. See that rat nosing through the garbage over there?

I joined her and looked into the alley behind the restaurant. “The big ugly brown one? Sure.”

He was a millionaire investment banker. He killed himself when the stock market crashed in ’29. She let out a low, scary yowl that sent the rat scurrying into the shadows. Now that, Roscoe, is a pussy.

I chuckled. “Did he come back as a rat because he committed suicide?”

No, he’s a rat because he was rich and greedy during his first life, a familiar voice said from above. That sort always get the worst punishment lives.

Dorothy looked up at the gray dove perched on the elm tree branch above our heads. Hello, Amelia. She glanced at me. Pilots, travelers and daredevils always come back as birds. So do dancers, for some reason. Flighty familiars for flighty creatures, I suppose.

Like creative souls, who sit around and do nothing all day, Amelia said, make the perfect cats.

“What about the guy who killed my family?” I asked, my throat tight. “Does he get to come back?”

Oh, yeah. Roscoe jerked the leash out of my hand, ran into the alley and knocked over one of the garbage cans. Dozens of cockroaches poured out into the alley.

Amelia flew down and perched on my shoulder. Rachel, meet the local bar association.

#

Even with my new ability to hear what animals were thinking, I still felt depressed. The more I moped around the house, the more tired I felt. Roscoe took me for walks every day, but pretty soon I couldn’t get up the energy to go more than a block.

You need to go back to the doctor, doll face, Roscoe told me as I hung up the leash. Something’s not right. Your scent has changed. You smell funny. Like Lydia.

“Maybe some of her perfume rubbed off on me.” Lydia was always hugging me and calling me her poor girl.

No, it’s not perfume. Roscoe sniffed me. Whatever it is, it’s getting stronger.

“I’m probably getting the flu.” I sat down on the sofa and rubbed my elbows. “That’s supposed to make you feel tired and achy like this.”

I went into the kitchen to get a drink and start dinner, but my head pounded and I kept dropping things. Finally I wrote a note for Uncle Jimmy and went to bed. The minute my head hit the pillow, I was out.

I woke up a couple of hours later and saw Roscoe sleeping on the floor next to my bed. I stepped over him and went out into the hall, stumbling a little in the dark as I headed for the bathroom. I heard Uncle Jimmy’s voice coming from my parents’ bedroom, and stopped.

“I know, but I gotta be here for her, Lydia,” he said, and then paused before adding, “We’ve been over this. I’m all Rachel has.”

I waited, but he didn’t say anything else. Then I went to the bathroom and went back to bed. I’d never thought about how Uncle Jimmy had put his whole life on hold to take care of me. I always came first. No wonder Lydia was upset with him.

The next morning I talked to him about it over breakfast. “Uncle Jimmy, I’m going to be eighteen in November. I’m old enough to live by myself.”

Says who? Roscoe wanted to know from under the kitchen table.

“Is that right?” My uncle put down his coffee mug. “You kicking me out, then, kid?”

Women. I heard Roscoe sigh. Can’t live with them, can’t bite them in the ass.

“No.” I nudged the dog with my shoe. “I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but I am almost an adult now. Maybe it’s time I learned how to take care of myself.”

He nodded. “So you are kicking me out.”

Tell him the truth, doll face, Roscoe advised.

“No, it’s just . . . ” The dog was right; I might as well come clean. “Look, I heard you talking to Lydia last night. I’m causing problems between you and your girlfriend, and I don’t want that.”

“Lydia is a nice girl, and she’d love to move in with me and get married and all that jazz,” Uncle Jimmy said. “But honey, I don’t want that.”

“You don’t?”

He shook his head. “I’ve been a bachelor all my life, and to be honest, I like being single.” He grinned. “You could say I’ve been using you as an excuse.”

“Men.” I rolled my eyes. “Can’t live with them, can’t bite them in the ass.”

My uncle’s jaw dropped. “Rachel!”

Under the table, Roscoe made a rude sound.

#

I felt a lot happier after talking to Uncle Jimmy, but I still couldn’t shake the tiredness. I barely made it through school that day, and when I got home I called and scheduled an appointment with the doctor. Then Roscoe wanted to take me for a walk, but I felt too wiped out to get off the sofa.

You don’t look good, the dog told me. And you smell worse. Something’s bad here, doll face. Why don’t you call Jimmy at work?

“I’ll be okay.” I licked my dry lips. “I’m dying of thirst, though.” I got up and staggered into the kitchen. The floor tilted as I was getting my Diet Coke out of the fridge, and the liter bottle slipped out of my hands, spraying soda all over the floor. “Blast it.”

Roscoe went over and sniffed the soda. Rachel, this stuff smells wrong. Like you.

“That’s because I’m the only one who drinks it,” I said, leaning against the fridge. “Uncle Jimmy hates soda, and Lydia only drinks water.”

“Water is good for your complexion, dear.”

Roscoe growled.

“Cut it out, dog.” I looked over to see Lydia step into the kitchen. She was carrying a tote bag and had rubber gloves on, which seemed a little strange. “Hi, Lydia. Uh, what are you doing here?”

“Your uncle told me you weren’t feeling very well,” she said as she put her bag on the counter. “I thought I’d bring over some of my special gazpacho for you.”

I hated vegetables, and especially cold vegetable soup, but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. “Thanks, but I’m really not hungry.” Something puzzled me. “I never told Uncle Jimmy that I was sick.”

“I’m sure he’s noticed how tired you’ve been, and how much weight you’ve lost,” Lydia said as she shooed Roscoe out into the yard and closed the door. “Come and sit down and I’ll make you a nice bowl of soup.”

“I can’t eat that,” I told her. “I don’t like it.” I didn’t like the way she was looking at me, either.

“You’re so ungrateful.” Lydia thumped down the container of soup and glared at me. “You have Jimmy waiting on you hand and foot, and all the insurance money your parents left you, and this house, but you still don’t appreciate any of it."

Why was she talking about the insurance money? “I'm very grateful for what I have.”

“When the court settles the lawsuit against that lawyer, you’ll probably get millions.” She scowled at me. “You think you have it all, don’t you?”

Roscoe began barking outside the kitchen door.

“I don’t have my family,” I said. “Maybe you should go home now, Lydia.”

“You should have died in the crash. That way Jimmy would have inherited the insurance money free and clear.” Lydia took out a bottle of pills. My sleeping pills, the ones that I’d thrown away the first week I’d gotten home. “Do you know how much trouble my father went to, fixing the brakes on the car?”

I froze. “What did you say?”

“Oh, that drunk lawyer was a Godsend,” she said as she took a glass out of the cabinet. “No one suspected your parents’ car actually caused the accident instead of his. But then you lived, and Jimmy wouldn’t leave you alone for a second.”

Things started to make sense. “You took my sleeping pills out of the trash.”

“They were the perfect answer to my problem. I knew Jimmy didn’t like peanut butter, so I ground up a handful and mixed them in the jar I brought. But you wouldn’t eat the sandwiches, and you didn’t drink enough of the Diet Coke.” She filled the glass with water. “Luckily I have enough left to take care of you.”

“I'm not taking those pills.” I turned around and slammed into a big, broad man’s chest. I looked up and saw it was Pat Herman, Lydia’s father.

“Course you will, you brat.” He pinned me against him with his heavy arms. “You want to be with your family again, don’t you?”

“Let go of me.” I struggled against his hold, but I was too weak to break it.

Pat gave me an ugly grin. “After you take your medicine.” He forced me around to face his daughter.

“They’ll know you did this,” I said to Lydia.

“No, it’ll look like you took an overdose of the pills prescribed for you,” Lydia said as she filled the glass with water. “You have been acting very depressed.” She walked over to me. “Jimmy will be hurt, but I’ll be there to get him through this. We’ll have a beautiful summer wedding. Hold her mouth open, Daddy.”

Lydia’s father squeezed my jaw until I thought it would crack, but I kept my teeth clenched.

“Don’t bruise her,” Lydia warned as she clamped my nose between her fingers. “Come on, Rachel, open up, or I'll have Daddy hang you in your closet.”

Keep your head down, doll face, ‘cause here we come.

Glass shattered, making Lydia cringe and scream as Roscoe hurtled through the broken window and onto Pat’s back. Pat let go of me, cursing as he went down with Roscoe on top of him.

Hoo-yah, you moron. I’ll teach you to hurt defenseless girls. Roscoe went right for his crotch.

Lydia’s father screamed just like a girl.

Amelia, Red, and half a dozen other birds flew into the kitchen and went right for Lydia’s face. Get the fake eyelashes! Claw that nose job! Tear out the earrings, the earrings!

As Lydia shrieked and tried to run for the door, Dorothy jumped on her back. This scene isn’t over yet, bitch. She raked her claws, gouging deep into Lydia’s neck.

This should be like your throat, dude, Brownie said as he sank his teeth into Lydia’s ankle and held on, snarling furiously.

I stumbled over Pat and out of the kitchen, running for the front door. I met Uncle Jimmy halfway there.

“Rachel?” The crashing and screeching sounds coming from the kitchen made him pale. “What in God’s name is going on in there?” He hurried to the door and I ran after him.

“Uncle Jimmy, let me explain—” I stopped in the doorway and saw that Lydia and her father were on the floor, both of them moaning and bleeding from a dozen small wounds.

Roscoe and all the other familiars were gone.

#

After the police came, I told them and my uncle almost everything. I gave them the jar of peanut butter, what was left in the bottle of Diet Coke, and repeated what Lydia had said about her father tampering with the brakes on my parents’ car. Uncle Jimmy took me to the ER to have me checked out, and my blood test came back positive for sedatives.

“She’s been heavily dosed,” the doctor told my uncle. “If she’d been given even one or two more pills, it would have been fatal.”

The cops interrogated Lydia, who cracked pretty fast and blamed everything on her father, who turned around and blamed everything on Lydia.

The truth completely wrecked Uncle Jimmy, especially when Lydia’s father told the cops that they had intended to kill my uncle, too, as soon as he married Lydia.

“Turns out that Lydia used to work for the insurance company that sold your parents their policy. She knew before we even met that I was the only other beneficiary besides you kids. Somehow she talked her father into going along with the whole scheme, hiring me so she could cozy up to me, then talking your Dad into bringing the Taurus in to be serviced.” My uncle shook his head. “Rachel, I’m so sorry.”

“You didn’t know, Uncle Jimmy.” I scratched Roscoe behind the ears. What Lydia and her father had done had been horrible, but for the first time since the accident, I felt at peace. “I’m just glad you came home early to check on me.”

“Actually I got a call from one of the neighbors.” He gave me a sheepish look. “She said Roscoe was running through her garden and if I didn’t come home and catch him, she’d call the pound.” He reached over to ruffle a hand through Roscoe’s fur, and frowned as he pulled back and looked at the red stain on his palm. “Is this blood?”

Big dark eyes met mine. You can’t tell him, Rache.

“He probably banged into some thorns when he went running through Mrs. Blake’s rose bushes.” That much was true.

The dog grinned at me. Good save, doll face.

Later that night, I sat by the open window in my bedroom, looking up at the stars. It didn’t surprise me when Amelia and Red flew down and landed on the sill, or when Dorothy climbed down a branch and jumped bonelessly into my room. Roscoe came over and rested his chin on my leg. Brownie followed, and curled up at my feet.

“How did you get in here?” I asked Brownie.

He grinned and thumped his tail. Dude, I never left. Oh, and that puddle in the bedroom next door? My bad.

“You guys saved my life,” I told them. “And Uncle Jimmy’s, too. How do I thank you for that?”

Bacon, Roscoe suggested, lolling his tongue. Lots of bacon.

"That reminds me," I said. "Who comes back as pigs?"

The criminally vain, Red said. Movie stars. Socialites. Supermodels.

"Oh, so it's a punishment life."

Amelia nodded. You’re getting the hang of it, girl.

Of course she is, Roscoe said. She's one of us now.

“I’m still human,” I reminded her. “I can’t go around acting like Dr. Doolittle or a pet psychic. They’ll lock me up.”

You could become a totally awesome vet, Brownie suggested. Then every time my human brings me in for a shot, you could like just, you know, fake giving it to me.

I laughed. “Well, I’d never have a problem figuring out what was wrong with my patients.”

I have a better idea, Dorothy said.

And she did.

(Author's note: a .pdf version of this story with cover art can be downloaded by clicking here.

2007-03-27T23:10:00.000-04:00

An excerpt from Evermore
A novel of the Darkyn
by Lynn Viehl

Jayr set Byrne's boots to one side and her gaze shifted to the window. "It is the last night of the full moon, my lord."

Was that resolve in her voice, or resignation?

"I forgot." How quickly he lied to her. Yet he could never tell his seneschal how impatiently he waited for this night each month, counting the weeks and days and sometimes, the hours. Knowing this was the night of renewal, his dents acérées had emerged fully from the moment she had entered his chamber.

Byrne took the hand Jayr offered, feeling the slight weight of the other she placed against his left thigh. Renewing the bond between a Kyn lord and his seneschal required a brief, largely ceremonial exchange of blood once during each moon cycle. Some lords had abandoned the archaic custom altogether, but Byrne would not.

This monthly concord, this communion, this one, selfish thing, he would have with her.

Byrne brought her hand to his mouth. As ever, the desire to drive his teeth into it pummeled him from the inside. He instead gently scored her palm with only the very tips of his fangs. Her skin, as cool and resilient as his own, parted for him. Only a few drops of her blood escaped before the scratches healed over, but they were enough.

As ever, the slightest taste of her blood made his head spin.

Jayr's voice stirred his hair as she repeated her oath of loyalty to him. "I willingly undergo everything for you, my lord, and will serve as your seneschal for all the days of my life."

Byrne took his mouth from her palm but didn't utter the usual reply or offer her his wrist. He didn't want it to end so quickly this time. This might well be their last exchange.

Until he left, she was his.

Jayr stared up at him. Expanding rings of violet lightened the sienna of her eyes, and the set of her mouth told him that her fangs had extended fully. Before he could see shame in her face, before he could think, he picked her up and set her on his thigh.

Jayr sat rigid in the circle of his arm. "My lord?"

"Stay." Byrne tore at the leather lacing below his collar, opening it. When she didn't accept his offering, he cupped the back of her head with his hand and brought her face to his throat. Her full lips pressed against his flesh, but she still did not use her teeth on him. "Open your mouth."

The soft heat of her breath scalded him as she obeyed, and as soon as he felt the sharp tips of her fangs he pressed her face against him, forcing her to bite into his throat.

"I accept you as my seneschal," he muttered as he held her there, his blood flowing into her mouth, "and give you service, honor, and the protection of my house."

Jayr made a low sound that moved over his skin before she reluctantly sucked at the wounds. The light, exquisite pressure of her feeding inched down his chest and belly, teasing and tightening everything in its path. In that moment, Byrne would have given her every drop of blood in his cursed veins, if only to hold her a little longer.

Fingertips touched his chest, a square palm settled against it. Her scent sharpened and darkened, dragging at him. His chest burned as he fought a swelling, roiling compulsion to claw away her garments and fill his hands with her flesh. As she lifted her mouth from the bite wounds they healed over, and his arms, dull and heavy, dropped away from her.

Jayr eased onto her feet and picked up his boots, carrying them over to the foot of his bed. She remained there, her back to him as she turned down the coverlet and linens. "Lord Locksley mentioned something about not competing in the archery contest this year." How normal she sounded. "So that others might have a chance at the prize."

"'Tis the only way they will." He saw her rearranging his pillows for his comfort and knew her touch would leave behind the scent of tansy. It had become the only thing that would lull him into the curious sleep of their kind. When she passed within his reach on her way to the woodbox, he almost pulled her back to him. His self-control would not last another minute. "Never mind the fire, I'm warm enough. Go to bed now, lass."

2006-10-01T15:10:00.000-04:00

The Suit
by S.L. Viehl

I was facing my first crisis as a professional writer. It wasn't a plot problem. It wasn't writer's block (I never get writer's block. There are many moments, usually around 2 am, that I fervently wish I did). I liked my editor, loved my agent, and was busily whizzing through the revisions on my manuscript. Problems with them I could handle.

I had been invited by a local writer's group to attend their monthly meeting. At the Airport Hilton. To meet 65 published or aspiring writers. I wasn't nervous about attending. Sixteen years of public school conferences had enabled me to be pleasant and sit and listen to almost anyone politely insult me. Then there was all the hand-to-hand combat training I'd gotten in the military. I figured meeting a bunch of writers would be a breeze.

No, the problem was my closet. Or more specifically, what was not in my closet.

"What does everyone wear to these meetings?" I casually inquired when I was invited. Eager to hear the words, "oh, any old thing, you know, be comfortable."

"Everyone dresses up," the lady President of the local writer's chapter stated firmly. "You know, suits, dresses, that kind of thing."

"I guess jeans and an X-Files t-shirt is definitely out, then," I said in my most forlorn tone, hoping to be corrected.

"Jeans? Oh, no, no one wears those." The woman sounded as though I'd said I planned to attend naked. She went on to assure me that if I simply wore "a nice pair of slacks and a decent blouse" that would be fine.

A nice pair of slacks. A decent blouse. Dresses. Suits. She didn't know who she was talking to. My idea of high fashion was making sure both of my shoes matched before I left the house. Despite this depressing requirement, I agreed to come to the meeting and hung up the phone. Went immediately to my closet. Turned on the light. Peered in.

None of my jeans or t-shirts had magically turned into suits. Not a single dress, except the sober-looking black thing I wore to weddings and funerals (events so similar to each other). If I wore that, I'd have to resist the continual urge to cry.

I spied some ancient slacks I used to wear to work ten years, four sizes and two kids ago. Blouses I'd worn with those slacks. Said blouses all appeared to be in fluorescent colors (very big ten years ago) and were missing at least two buttons, generally in the chest area. I'd never match the buttons up. Safety pins would be noticeable.

It wasn't my fault, of course. I had no reason to maintain a wardrobe when I'd quit work and stayed home to increase my tax deductions. My children didn't get up in the morning and demand, "Mom, can't you change into a nice pair of slacks and a blouse?" No, my kids generally grunted at me in the morning. They got verbal only if the waffles and orange juice didn't reach the table within five minutes of their waking. They felt that as long as I could cook and drive, I served my purpose. Who cared what I wore?

My husband wasn't much help, either. He thought I looked pretty in whatever I wore, even if it was my rattiest pair of shorts with the hem falling down on one leg under one of his paint-spattered t-shirts. Of course, my husband is in dire need of an eye examination, which I keep convincing him to put off. One day he will get glasses, look at me and yell, "Who the heck are you?"

He was, however, very sympathetic when I explained my dilemma. "You never buy yourself anything, honey. Go get yourself a nice suit."

It was that word "nice" everyone kept using. It should have warned me, the same way it had when my Mother used to say, "Can't you write something nice?"

I went to the mall the next day and hit the first major department store I came to. Confidently I cruised down the women's wear aisles. So I hadn't been serious clothes shopping since Elton John starting wearing a rug. It was like riding a bike, right?

I immediately discovered another set of problems. I was too poor for the clothes in the Designers Department. Too old for the stuff in the Youth Section. Too fat for the Petite racks. Not fat enough for the Woman's Sizes.

In desperation, I went up to a sales clerk. Naturally she was on the phone, arguing with her boyfriend. "Excuse me."

She gave me a pained glance. I didn't leave. A few seconds later, she sighed heavily. That didn't drive me off. Like any determined female consumer, I know you can usually out-wait the sales clerk. Even one who thought her boyfriend was "really being a complete jerk".

Finally she tucked the phone on the top of her shoulder. "Yes?" she snapped.

This was it. I only had one chance to get all the information. If I came back, she'd go off to the stock room or take a coffee break. That was how it worked when dealing with department store sales clerks. I took a deep breath, and rushed it all out in a single sentence:

"Where can I find a suit that doesn't cost $500, is made in sizes higher than 12, and is cut to fit someone who wears bras that prevent center-of-gravity shifting?"

She didn't even blink. "Center aisle, over there." A jerk of her head in the general direction, then she was back on the phone with her boyfriend. She was put out by the fact he apparently didn't appreciate how much she did for him on a daily basis. Based on my short acquaintance, I was already on his side, poor guy.

I went to the center aisle over there. It was a small, bleak square in the store, filled with sober racks of black, grey, navy and screaming yellow suits. (Yellow being the current trend in fashion). I picked up a tag at random and nearly had an asthma attack. And I don't even have asthma. For a size 6 rayon jacket that looked about as substantial as woven facial tissue, I would have to fork over $229.00. Just for the jacket, nothing else.

White-faced but determined, I continued my search. I found some suits I liked on the 50% off rack, but they were all in sizes like "2" and "38XXX". I found screaming yellow suits in size 14 that paired with my skin tone might get me rushed to the hospital as a victim of sudden, acute liver failure. I found black suits with big brass buttons, lapels wider than men wore them in the 70's, with enigmatic tags that read "Sma. A-B" "Med. B-C". I figured the last was sort of like pantyhose sizes, and tried to find a "Chunk. P-Q". No luck.

At last, I found a navy blue suit in a size fourteen, not on sale, with a tiny pin stripe. It wasn't $229.00 for the jacket. It was $244.00 for the jacket and a quarter-yard tube of matching fabric someone on Prozac had tagged as a skirt.

Grimly I marched into the fitting room, and tried it on. I wasn't crazy about the pin stripes, but at least they were vertical. I could tell people it was "slimming" and probably get away with it. There was no way I could lose thirty pounds to get into one of those "Med. B-C" black nightmares, even with comprehensive surgery. I only had six days left before the meeting. I'd enter therapy before I voluntarily wore yellow.

It would have to do.

The blouse worn underneath the jacket - something euphemistically tagged as a "shell" - was priced at $39.00. I scoffed at that. For the same money I could get ten new t-shirts that would pass as "shells" if I didn't take off the jacket. And why buy new t-shirts? I could wear what I already had at home. The jacket would cover up David Duchovny's face, if I kept it buttoned.

It was painful to hand over the equivalent of two FP&L payments, but I bought the suit and went home. When he heard how much it cost, my husband swallowed hard, but only once. He didn't trust himself to speak for a few hours. That was okay. I was busy trying on t-shirts with the suit to see which one I'd wear to the meeting.

"Honey?" I asked, coming out of the bedroom to model my latest experimental combo. "Can you see the hair on the top of Mulder's head when I button the jacket like this?" He was staring at the floor. I looked down, too. "What?"

"Uh - what are you going to wear with that?" he asked. When I glanced blankly back at him, he added, "On your feet?"

I swallowed hard. Several times. Trudged back into the bedroom. Glanced into the closet.

Nope. None of my sneakers had magically turned into high heels, either.

Copright 1998 by S.L. Viehl
All Rights Reserved

2006-09-29T21:48:00.000-04:00

Sajora Raska (Jory Rask), human/Jorenian crossbreed female, 24 years old, 6’9” tall, 240 lbs.

Birthdate: November 14th
Astrological Sign: Scorpio
Place of birth: In space, en route from Joren to Earth

Mother: Xenobiologist Kalea Raska/Jorenian
[Margin Note: mother was repudiated by HouseClan and exiled from Joren for refusing to accept Choice]
Father: Raider/Slaver Kieran/human
[Margin Note: was trained as Blade Dancer]
Maternal Grandparents: Skalea and Tnefa Raska/Jorenian, ClanLeaders of HouseClan Raska
Maternal Aunt: Enale Raska/Jorenian
Paternal Relatives: Unknown
Siblings: Unknown
ClanSiblings: Jakol Varena, Nalek Zamlon, Galena Nerea, Osrea Levka, Danea Koralko, Renor Xado.
Spouse: None. Former best friend/lover: half-Imbajic shockball player Rijor, murdered by human mob after game injury revealed he was part alien

Occupation: Professional shockball player, first string runback, NuYork StarDrivers
Residence*: Future Agers commune, Arizona desert
[*Margin Note: at beginning of novel]--Resides with: mother (in hiding from Terran authorities, no residency permit)

Human characteristics: Black curly hair (worn short) Caucasian* skin and features [*Margin note: has pink nipples/small breasts, show in glidebus scene with Kol]
Jorenian characteristics: Six-fingered hands, retractable claws, 40 versus 32 teeth
Hybrid characteristics: reddish-purple blood, solid colored eyes (green)
Distinguishing marks: Ligature mark around base of neck, assorted shockball injury scars, diagonal scar* on left cheek [*Margin note: does not acquire this until after fight with Kol re: challenging Fayen]

Implant: Artificial right knee joint, constructed of salvaged drone tech, installed by (unspecified) alien underground physician [Margin notes: supposedly incompatible with human tissue; Jory develops tolerance over time, still has periodic infections, self-treats with infusions of antibiotics. Repeated injuries from shockball, wear and refittings have degraded the implant. At open of novel, Jory has already been warned that no more bone trims can be performed, and one more serious injury will result in amputation of her right leg from the lower thigh down.]

Positive personality: Brave, loyal (devoted to mother), capable of deep affection, sexually well-adjusted/mature, developed sense of fairness, protective* toward the young/weak [*Margin note: forms immediate protective/older sister feelings toward Galena. Demonstrates affection when trust is established with the others.]

Negative personality: Hot-tempered, driven, aggressive (confrontational), impatient, anti-social or defensive around strangers, often emotionally reserved, moderately claustrophobic (especially caves and underground passages), somewhat phobic* about having children [*Margin note: refusal to have children = main romantic conflict between Jory and Kol]

Hobbies/Collects: None (interested in bladed weapons)
Personal History/Childhood:

Born in space
Brought to Earth by Mother
Raised in alien underground (age 0 to 16)
Meets crossbreed Rijor, age 6
Caught and nearly hung by human children, age 7
Learns how to knife fight, age 8
Learns how to use surplus ordinance to blow tunnels, age 10

Jory has never had any contract with the Jorenian people prior to the opening of the novel. When Kalea arrived on Earth, she took refuge in the alien underground to prevent deportation, and Jory spent her entire childhood in the tunnels under New Angeles.[Margin note: age 7 caught topside by human children and lynched with component wire, which Jory’s weight snapped, resulted in permanent ligature mark around throat.] Rijor becomes her best/only friend.

Personal History/Adolescence:

Becomes lovers with Rijor, age 15
Rijor and Jory recruited by NuYork StarDivers, age 16
Plays first string runback in debut game, scores three goals
Right knee shattered, replaced by implant, age 16 [Margin note: result of 22 separate game injuries in eight months]
Meets Rico/owner of the Gliders, refuses offer to join Gliders, age 17. [Margin note: possibly future novella idea]
Plays runback in first AllStar game, age 18

Jory’s early years with the junta are a succession of glory and injury, always overshadowed by the fact that she must hide her alien characteristics by wearing shades and specially designed gloves. Her relationship with Rijor progresses from friendship to sex, but the affection on both sides is more friendly than romantic. Now that she can no longer live with Kalea in the underground, Rijor is the only person Jory can be herself with. She deals with the hard reality of playing professional sports by saving up what she earns and planning to move her mother away from the city and out into the desert, where she can live more freely.

Personal History/Adulthood:
Voted World Game Most Valuable Player, age 19
First tibial bone shave, age 19
Signs lucrative contract to endorse designer footgear, age 20
Second tibial bone shave, age 21
Rijor murdered, age 22
Moves Kalea from underground to Future Agers commune, age 22
Elected to Shockball Junta Hall of Fame, age 23

Jory’s fame increases, but so do the dangers surrounding her. Repeated injuries are creating havoc with her artificial knee tech. Her constant exposure in the press threatens to expose her as a crossbreed. After Rijor is senselessly murdered by an angry mob, she immediately moves her mother out to the Arizona desert, hoping that will protect Kalea from the same. Rijor’s death devastates Jory, but she goes into basic denial over it. She grows tired of playing injured but pushes herself to keep earning so that she can collect enough money to keep her and Kalea safe forever.

Novel Trigger Events:

Rijor’s murder: Despite being in total denial about it, Rij’s death forever changes Jory’s perceptions of herself, humans, and the prospect of continuing to live on Earth.

Kalea Raska contracts chicken pox virus from Future Ager commune children, dies alone: Kalea’s death destroys the last reason Jory has to continue playing Shockball and hiding her crossbreed characteristics. As Kalea’s Speaker, Jory has sworn to return to Joren and Speak to the ClanChildren of Honor.[Margin note: insinuate that Kalea may have deliberately infected herself as a form of suicide.]

Relationship to/with other characters:

Kalea: Deeply devoted but often exasperated with mother. Impatient or indifferent to learning Kalea’s Jorenian ways, but does so to please mother. Envies Kalea’s gentle nature and unwavering faith.

ThGill: Jory doesn’t trust ‘Gill at first, but quickly develops a comfortable friendship with him, mostly because he consistently demonstrates a harmless, affable nature.
Enale: Jory finds her aunt’s cool welcome both annoying and amusing. Admires/envies her appearance. Wonders (at first) if they will get along as family.

Skalea: When they meet for the first time, Jory shows respect to her grandfather as Kalea taught her, but is immediately estranged by the old man’s harsh reception and his indifference to/acceptance of Kalea’s death. His behavior destroys her fledgling hope of a new life on Joren.

Jakol: Jory is intrigued by Kol from the first time they spar in the quad, but it takes a little while for her to catch on to the physical attraction behind it. Since Kol is half-Terran, half-Jorenian like her she unconsciously gravitates toward him. Through the book they have an ongoing, often subtle struggle for dominance over the group, resolved after the final challenge with Fayen. Jory is annoyed by the fact that Kol is more cautious and thoughtful than she is, and in many ways a better leader. Play up the physical attraction first, then emotional reliance/investment as they endure the Tana. Kol’s determination to have a traditional Jorenian bond is the main roadblock to their relationship, as Jory does not want children. [Margin note: Kol smells like rain and pine.]

Fayen: Jory readily identifies Fayen as an enemy and direct competition for Kol. Jory uses derision to combat Fayen at first, but quickly learns the Skogaq is a clever, lethal opponent. Jory’s Jorenian instincts are enraged by Fayen’s play for Kol, but when the Skogaq pretends to kill Galena, it pushes Jory over the edge into homicidal hatred. [Margin note: Fayen is hermaphroditic]

Danea: Jory and Danea basically hate each other at first sight, mostly on Danea’s part [Margin note: Danea refuses to believe they were all sired by slavers], and bicker through the entire novel. Jory doesn’t realize Danea reminds her of Rijor. Their mutual antagonism slowly evolves into one of the closer relationships within the clan. Whenever the seven are threatened, Danea is always the first at Jory’s side to defend them. [Margin note: expose Danea as an aquatic after they move through the rift.]

Nalek: The big brother Jory never had. Besides Galena, Nalek is probably Jory’s strongest supporter within the clan. Fond of him, often exasperated by his mild nature, Jory unconsciously depends on Nalek as her anchor. [Margin note: Nalek is the only person immune to Danea’s corporeal field.]

Galena: Jory is Galena’s polar opposite in almost everything, and yet Jory is immediately drawn to and protective of her. Galena serves as a nudge to Jory’s conscience, which often angers Jory. Galena’s vulnerability and inherent gentleness subconsciously remind Jory of her mother, and makes Galena the heart of the clan. [Margin note: Galena has transmitter implanted by HouseClan, do not reveal until end of novel.]

Osrea: Serves as Jory’s annoying little brother, although she understands him better than the rest of the clan, especially when he becomes aggressive and confrontational. Jory recognizes his surreptitious affection for Galena early on and is more forgiving of him because of it. [Margin note: Os’s exocartilage plates thicken as he loses weight during the Tana training.]

Renor: Jory is wary of Ren because of his silence and his more inhuman characteristics (considers him a possible danger to the group in the beginning) but develops an abiding respect for him after he demonstrates the same loyalty to clan that she feels. Learning how he was treated by the Xado cements their quiet friendship, although she continues to be irritated by his inherent secrecy throughout the book. [Margin note: Renor does not sleep.]

Bek: Jory and Bek develop mutual respect and friendship as they recognize each other’s ethics. Jory does not completely trust the Blade trainer, but she comes to rely on his sense of fair play. [Margin note: Bek has severe facial scarring from a transport crash]

Uel: Jory is at first confused then annoyed by the attention she receives from the Blade Master. Uel presents more questions than answers, and his persistence in watching her bothers her on more than one level. [Margin note: Uel is a reconstruct]

2006-07-26T20:59:00.000-04:00

Single Novel Plotting Template

This template can be used to draft a novel written for any genre. Each genre
has a particular focus, so if you're writing SF adventure, the main conflict would be a problem which occurs sometime in the future (or past, or in an alternate universe, etc.) If you're writing romance, the main conflict would be the developing relationship between the hero and heroine. If you're writing
a mystery, the main conflict would be the crime involved, etc.

The word "protagonist" is also generic – you can obviously have more than
one, if your book is told from several POVs.

Each block can represent any chapter length. Since I usually write twenty
chapters per book, each block covers two chapters of my story. You don't have to tell the story in this exact order, either. If it's more important to have an element of block seven appear before another in block six, switch them around. My only advice is to keep the progression even; don't move too many elements too far in either direction.

Using a template is like consulting a map for driving directions – it will get you where you want to go, but there are plenty of interesting side roads along the way. Don't stick to the main highway, do a little exploring on your own -- and feel free to change the template to suit your unique style of storytelling.

Your Novel Title:_________________________________________________

Create a Hot Premise – Describe the Story in Ten Words or Less: _____________________________________________________________________________________

___________________________________________

Block One -- Establish Your Story Line

1. Describe your protagonist (occupational, emotional, and situational.)

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. What is the main conflict your protagonist faces?

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. Identify the conflict catalyst -- what makes it affect your protagonist?
What does your protagonist decide to do now?

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

Block Two -- Supporting Story Elements, Crisis #1

1. Briefly describe your supporting characters.

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. What is/are the subplots of your story?

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. Identify crisis #1 (escalation of the main conflict, or how does it get
worse?)

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

Block Three -- Conflict Response/Subplot Weaving #1

1. How does your protagnist react to crisis #1?

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. Which of your supporting characters reacts to crisis #1, and how?

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. Which of your subplots comes into play now, and how?

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

Block Four -- Conflict Escalation #2/Conflict Response

1. Identify crisis #2 (second escalation of main conflict, or how does it
change/get worse?)

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. How does your protagonist react to crisis #2?

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. Which of your supporting characters react to crisis #2, and how?

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

Block Five -- Present the subplot(s) catalyst(s)/obstacle(s)

1. Describe how the subplot(s) escalate.

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. How does the subplot(s) escalation affect your protagonist in relation to
the supporting characters?

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. What is the main obstacle to the protagonist solving the main conflict?

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

Block Six -- Develop supporting Characters/subplot(s); Conflict escalation
#3

1. How do the supporting characters deal with the protagonist's response to subplot escalation?

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. How do the subplots affect the main conflict?

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. Identify crisis #3 (third escalation of the main conflict, or how does it
change/get worse?)

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

Block Seven -- Protagonist/Supporting character response to crisis #2;
subplot weaving #2

1. How does the protagonist react to crisis #3?

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. How do the supporting characters react to crisis #3, and protagonist's
response?

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. Which of your subplots comes into play now, and how?

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

Block Eight -- Final conflict escalation, subplot culmination

1. What is the final crisis (describe the final escalation of the main
conflict.)

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. How does the final crisis affect the protagonist and the supporting
characters?

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. What is the culmination of the subplot(s)?

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

Block Nine -- Response to Final Conflict/Resolution of subplot(s)

1. What is the protagonist's response to the final crisis?

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. What are the supporting characters' responses to the final crisis?

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. What is/are the resolution(s) of the subplot(s)?

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

Block Ten -- Resolution and Conclusion

1. What is the resolution of the main conflict?

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. How does the resolution affect the protagonist and the supporting
characters?

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. What is the conclusion of the story?

________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2006-07-25T21:02:00.000-04:00

Trilogy Plotting Template

Following is a template designed for writers specifically tackling the three-book trilogy series. This is not to be carved in stone! Please feel free to adapt. alter, and add to it to suit your particular writing style and story line needs.

There are two types of conflict I refer to in the template: standalone conflict, and main conflict. The standalone conflict mainly pertains to that particular book in the trilogy, but does affect the main conflict. The main conflict relates to the central theme of your trilogy, and as such should carry through all three books.

There is another term I use -- running threads. These are plot points which
can be carried over into subsequent books for resolution. For example, if your character is a fugitive from the law and will remain on the run throughout the trilogy, that is a running thread.

Also, this schematic is aimed more at tying the three books together versus
individual book plotting. For more detailed information on how to plot an individual novel, see the single novel plotting template.

Trilogy Series Plotting Template

Create a premise for the trilogy by describing each novel in ten words or
less:

Book One: ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Book Two: ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Book Three: ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

What common bonds tie these three novels together (describe the central
theme and main conflict)?

Book One: ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Book Two: ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Book Three: ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

What are the standalone conflicts in each novel, and how do they relate to
the main conflict?

Book One: ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Book Two: ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Book Three: ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I. Trilogy Breakdown, Book One

A. Establishing the Story Line

1. Describe your protagonist and supporting cast of characters as they are
introduced in book one:
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. How is the standalone conflict established in this book?
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. What is the catalyst that brings the standalone conflict and all the
characters together? How does it initially affect your protagonist and characters?
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

B. Inclusive Conflict and Running Threads Development

1. Describe the main points of the standalone conflict's escalation (suggest
three escalations for book one):
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. Identify which points introduced by the standalone conflict that will be
developed as running threads, and how:
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. Identify which points of the standalone conflict that will be resolved,
and how:
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

4. Describe how the threads in book one, resolved or open, affect the main
conflict:
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

C. Character Development, Eliminations, Carry-Overs

1. Describe how the escalation of the standalone conflict affects the
protagonist at each point:
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. Describe how the escalation of the standalone conflict affects the
supporting characters:
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. Identify which characters will be resolved/eliminated from the story line
in book one, and why.
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

4. Identify which characters will be carried over into book two, and why.
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

D. Resolution of the Standalone Conflict, Affect on the Main Conflict

1. Describe how the standalone conflict is resolved in book one:
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. Describe what elements of the standalone conflict of book one lead into
the standalone conflict of book two (transition of running threads):
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. Describe how both the resolution and carry-over elements relate to the
main conflict of the trilogy:
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

II. Trilogy Breakdown, Book Two

A. Reestablishing the Story Line, Handling Backstory

1. Describe your protagonist and supporting cast of characters carried over
from book one, in their present circumstances:
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. Define the necessary backstory carried over from book one, and how it is
incorporated into book two:
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. How is the standalone conflict established in this book?
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

4. What is the new catalyst that brings the standalone conflict and all the
characters together? How does it initially affect your protagonist and characters?
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

B. Inclusive Conflict and Running Threads Perpetuation/Resolution

1. Describe the main points of book two's standalone conflict escalation
(remember, suggest three per book):
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. Describe how running threads carried over from book one affect the
standalone conflict of book two:
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. Describe which running threads will remain open and carry over into book three, which threads will be resolved, and how:
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

4. Describe how running threads, resolved or open, affect the main conflict:
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

C. Character Development and Carry-Overs

1. Describe how the escalation of book two's standalone conflict affects the
protagonst at each point. How does the protagonist progress/regress as a character in relation to the new conflict:
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. Describe how the escalation of the standalone conflict affects the
supporting characters, and how they progress/regress in relation to the new conflict:
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. Identifty which characters will be resolved/eliminate from the story line
in book two, how, and why:
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

4. Identify which characters will be carried over into book three, how, and
why:
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

D. Resolution of the Standalone Conflict, Affect on Main Conflict

1. Describe how the standalone conflict is resolved in book two:
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. Describe what elements of the standalone conflict of book two lead into
the standalone conflict of book three:
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. Describe how the resolution and carry-over elements relate to the main
conflict of the series:
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

III. Trilogy Breakdown, Book Three

A. Reestablishing and Preparing the Story Line for Conclusion, Handling
Backstory

1. Describe your protagonist and supporting cast of characters carried over
from book two, in their current circumstances:
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. Define the necessary backstory carried over from books one and two, and how it is incorporated into book three:
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. How is the standalone conflict established in book three?
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

4. What is the new catalyst that brings the standalone conflict and all the
characters together? How does it initially affect your protagonist and characters?
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

B. Inclusive Conflict and Running Threads Resolution

1. Describe the main points of book three's standalone conflict escalation
(again, suggest three):
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. Describe how running threads carried over from books one and two affect the standalone conflict of book three:
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. Describe how the standalone conflict of book three leads into final
escalation of the main conflict:
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

C. Character Development, Resolution, and Final Disposition

1. Describe how the escalation of book three's standalone conflict affects
the protagonist at each point. How does the protagonist progress/regress as a character in relation to the new conflict?
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. Describe how the escalation of the standalone conflict affects the
supporting characters, and how they progress/regress in relation to the new conflict:
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. Identify how all characters will be resolved/eliminated/etc. in book
three, and why:
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

D. Resolution of Standalone Conflict and Main Conflict

1. Describe the resolution of all running threads which remain open from
books one and two:
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. Describe the resolution of the standalone conflict in book three, and how
that affects the main conflict:
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. Describe how the resolution of threads and standlone conflict resolve the main conflict of the trilogy.
________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2006-07-24T21:04:00.000-04:00

Mid-Length Series Plotting Template

Following is a template designed for writers specifically tackling the mid-length series. This is not to be carved in stone! Please feel free to adapt, alter, and add to it to suit your particular writing style and story line needs.

As mid-length series can be of varying lengths, and rather tough to plot by
individual volume, I've broken up the plotting into "phases." For example, phase one of a mid-length series consisting of a total of nine books would refer to the first three books you write.

There are two types of conflict I refer to in the template: standalone conflict, and main conflict. The standalone conflict mainly pertains to that particular book in the series, but does affect the main conflict. The main conflict relates to the central theme of your series, and as such should carry through all the books.

There is another term I use -- running threads. These are plot points which can be carried over into subsequent books for resolution. For example, if your character is a fugitive from the law and will remain on the run throughout the series, that is a running thread. I've given three examples of some running thread templates. Also, this schematic is aimed more at tying all the books together versus individual book plotting. For more detailed information on how to plot an individual novel, see the single novel plotting template.

Mid-Length Series Plotting Template

Create a premise for the series by describing the main conflict in ten words
or less: ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

How many books will encompass the three phases of the series?_________

Phase One (establish):_____________________________________________
Phase Two (challenge/change):_____________________________________
Phase Three (resolve):_____________________________________________

Create a premise for the books in each phase by describing the inclusive
conflict in each novel(add/subtract book entry lines as needed):

Phase One:
Book:___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________Book:___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________Phase Two:
Book:___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________Book:___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________Phase Three:
Book:___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Book:___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Example Running Threads Templates (add/subtract books and threads to fit your series):

The Cascade Effect (Three Threads) Template:

Phase One-----------------------Phase Two -------------------------Phase Three

Book One--------Book Two--------Book Three-------Book Four---------Book Five

Thread A-----------------------------------------------------------End Thread A

Thread “A” is the major plot twist related to your series conflict– the big payoff.

Thread B-----------------------------------------End Thread B

“B” is the secondary plot twist related to your series conflict, which can
set up your finale with “A”.

Thread C------------------------End Thread C

“C” is the catalyst twist, which can be related to either the standalone
conflict of the book it appears in, or involved in your series conflict. This thread can lead to the revelation of “B”

The Switch Hitter (Five Threads) Template:

Phase One--------------------Phase Two---------------------------Phase Three

Book One------Book Two------Book Three------Book Four------------Book Five

Thread A---------------------------------------------------------End Thread A

“A” is the major plot twist related to your series conflict– the big payoff.

Thread B--------------------End Thread B/Start Thread C------------End Thread C

“B” and “C” are the secondary plot twists. “B” can set up “C”, while “C”
sets up your finale with “A”. Both can be related to standalone twists or the series conflict.

---------------Thread D---------------------------------------------End Thread D

“D” is a series enhancer – works best when it ties together the standalone
conflicts in phase one and three with the series conflict.

---------------------------------------------Start Thread E----------End Thread E

“E”sets up your finale, like “C” but of shorter duration.

Constant Upheaval (Seven Threads) Template:

Phase One------------------Phase Two--------------------------Phase Three

Book One------Book Two-----Book Three--------Book Four---------Book Five

Thread A-------------------------------------------------------End Thread A

“A” is the major plot twist related to your series conflict– the big payoff.

---------------Thread B---------End Thread B/Start Thread C---End Thread C

--------------------------------------------Start Thread D----End Thread D

“B,”“C,” and “D” are the secondary plot twists. “B” and “C” should relate
directly to the series conflict and set up “A”. “D”can be the transition thread leading from the resolution of “B” and “C” into the resolution of “A,” or a red herring to keep the reader from guessing “A.”

Start Thread E--End Thread E---Start Thread F--End Thread F--Start Thread
G--End Thread G

“E,”“F,” and “G” are standalone plot twists which cascade revelations within each phase of the series. These should be related to the series conflict but used to tie together the individual books.

I. Mid-Length Series Breakdown, Phase One

A. Establishing the Story Line

1. Describe your protagonist and supporting cast of characters as they are
introduced in phase one: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. How are the standalone conflicts established in this phase? ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. What is the catalyst that brings the standalone conflicts and all the
characters together? How do they initially affect your protagonist and characters? ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

4. What running threads are introduced in phase one? ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

B. Inclusive Conflicts and Running Threads Development

1. Describe the main points of each standalone conflict's escalation
(suggest three to five escalations per conflict for phase one): ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. Identify which standalone conflicts in phase one relate or develop into
running threads, and how: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. Identify which running threads will be resolved, in which book, and how: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

4. Indentify which new running threads will be introduced within phase one,
and how: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

5. Describe how the threads in phase one, resolved or open, affect the main
conflict: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

C. Character Development, Eliminations, Carry-Overs

1. Describe how the escalation of the standalone conflicts in phase one
affect the protagonist at each point, by book: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. Describe how the escalation of the standalone conflicts in phase one
generally affect the supporting characters, by book: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. Identify which characters will be resolved/eliminated from the story line
in phase one, and why. ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

4. Identify which characters will be carried over into phase two, and why. ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

5. Identify which new characters will be introduced prior to phase two, and
why: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

D. Resolution of the Standalone Conflicts, Affect on the Main Conflict

1. Describe how the standalone conflicts are resolved in phase one: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. Describe what elements of the standalone conflicts of phase one lead into the standalone conflicts of phase two (transition of running threads): ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. Describe how both the resolutions and carry-over elements in phase one
relate to the main conflict of the series: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

II. Mid-Length Series Breakdown, Phase Two

A. Reestablishing the Story Line, Handling Backstory

1. Describe your protagonist and supporting cast of characters carried over
from phase one, in their present circumstances at the initiation of phase two: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. Define the necessary backstory carried over from phase one, and how it is incorporated into phase two: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. How are the standalone conflicts established in this phase? ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

4. What is the new catalyst that brings the standalone conflicts and all the
characters together in the initial stage of phase two? How does they initially affect your protagonist and characters? ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

B. Inclusive Conflicts and Running Threads Perpetuation/Resolution

1. Describe the main points of phase two's standalone conflicts and their
individual escalations (remember, suggest three escalations per conflict/book): ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. Describe how running threads carried over from phase one affect the
standalone conflicts of phase two: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. Identify which running threads will remain open and carry over into phase three, and why: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

4. Identify which threads will be resolved in phase two, and how: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

5. Identify which new threads will be introduced within phase two, and how: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

6. Describe how running threads, resolved or open, affect the main conflict
of the series: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

C. Character Development and Carry-Overs

1. Describe how the escalation of phase two's standalone conflicts affect
the protagonst at each point. How does the protagonist progress/regress as a character in relation to the new conflicts: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. Describe how the escalation of the standalone conflicts generally affect
the supporting characters, and how they progress/regress in relation to the new conflicts: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. Identifty which characters will be resolved/eliminate from the story line
in phase two, how, and why: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

4. Identify which characters will be carried over into phase three, how, and
why: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

5. Identify which new characters will be introduced in phase two, how, and
why: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

D. Resolution of the Standalone Conflict, Affect on Main Conflict

1. Describe how the standalone conflicts are resolved in phase two: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. Describe what elements of the standalone conflicts of phase two lead into the standalone conflicts of phase three: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. Describe how the resolutions and carry-over elements relate to the main
conflict of the series: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

III. Mid-Length Series Breakdown, Phase Three

A. Reestablishing and Preparing the Story Line for Conclusion, Handling
Backstory

1. Describe your protagonist and supporting cast of characters carried over
from phase two, in their current circumstances at the initiation of phase three: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. Define the necessary backstory carried over from phase one and two, and how it is incorporated into phase three: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. How are the standalone conflicts established in phase three? ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

4. What are the new catalysts that bring the standalone conflicts and all
the characters together? How does it initially affect your protagonist and characters? ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

B. Inclusive Conflict and Running Threads Resolution

1. Describe the main points of phase three's standalone conflicts and their
escalation (again, suggest three to five per book): ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. Describe how running threads carried over from phase one and two affect the standalone conflicts of phase three: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. Describe how the standalone conflicts of phase three lead into final
escalation of the main conflict of the series: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

C. Character Development, Resolution, and Final Disposition

1. Describe how the escalation of phase three's standalone conflicts affect
the protagonist at each point. How does the protagonist progress/regress as a character in relation to the new conflicts? ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. Describe how the escalation of the standalone conflicts generally affect
the supporting characters, and how they progress/regress in relation to the new conflicts: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. Identify how all characters will be resolved/eliminated/etc. in phase
three, and why: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

D. Resolution of Standalone Conflicts and Main Conflict

1. Describe the resolution of all running threads which remain open from
phase one and two: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

2. Describe the resolution of the standalone conflicts in phase three, and
how that affects the main conflict: ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

3. Describe how the resolution of threads and standalone conflicts resolve
the main conflict of the series. ________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________

Novel Plotting Templates Copyright 2001 by S.L. Viehl
All rights reserved.
Copies made and distributed for teaching or not-for-profit purposes is permitted.

2006-05-23T23:19:00.000-04:00

Back to Back
by S.L. Viehl

I woke up when they threw the body into my crawl.

He was alive, but roughed up – gashed, bleeding green blood, and his right arm was at a wrong angle to his shoulder – and despite that he landed on his knees and was back up in two seconds. He went for the door first and took a heavy jolt that sent him reeling back toward me.

"Don’t do that again," I said, and sat up as he whipped around to face me. "Two stuns will set off an alarm, and then the guards will come in and kick your ass until you’re unconscious."

He stepped out of the shadows, but they stuck to him. No, he was naturally dark – blue-skinned, a really pretty shade of sapphire. His eyes were completely white.

"Locega Jorenhai?" He had a low, deep voice, and used one of his six-fingered hands in a fluid motion. He was looking around, and his white eyeballs moved, implying he wasn’t blind.

"Sorry, no." I plucked a piece of my bedding from the matted hair hanging in my eyes and palmed a chunk of stone in my other hand, just to be safe. Some of the new ones thought nothing of raping a female, and he was a lot bigger than me. "You speak stanTerran?"

His spooky eyes studied me, from my bare soles to the little dip in the middle of my nose. "Te-her-hran?"

"That’s right." I spat on the floor of the crawl in emphasis. "Terran."

He looked up at the crawl roof and muttered something under his breath. Something that sounded mean.

"I’m thrilled to meet you, too." I scooted back down into my mound of dead grass and pointed to the one Gfrra had occupied until yesterday, when he’d taken one blow too many on the sands. I didn’t thinking I’d miss his snoring, but I did. "That pile is yours."

Big Blue started pacing the length of the crawl, studying every crack in the stones. I curled up and tried to ignore him, but after an hour I sighed. He was heavy, and his footsteps pounded the stone. He’d be at it all night if I didn’t do something. I got up and got in his way.

He stopped and looked down at me. "Junia’arral tobereno?"

"Time for bed." I pointed to his mound, then closed my eyes and tilted my head for a second. "Sleep."

He made another quick gesture – sort of like the universal gesture for screw you – and went around me. I turned and smacked the base of his skull with my rock. He hit the dirt in stages – knees, hands, face – and didn’t move again.

I checked for a pulse – if I’d killed him, the guards would be pissed, so I’d have to make it look like he’d done himself – but he was still alive. Steady, heavy pulse, nice face, well-built body.

The guards especially loved breaking slaves like him, poor bastard.

I tucked my rock back in the little niche I’d dug out in the floor, dropped onto my grass bed and slept.

2006-05-22T23:31:00.000-04:00

“Rise for the count. Rise!”

I dragged myself up in time to see centuron HekVar kick my new bedmate over onto his back. Big Blue continued the roll, got up on his feet and lunged at the Hsktskt.

I closed my eyes, but the sound of the zap he took still made me wince.

“Fool.” HekVar was not amused by such antics, and glared down at him as he writhed on the floor in agony. The wide scar on his brow wrinkled as he bent down and snapped Big Blue’s arm back into its socket. “Gnat, why have you not instructed this one yet?”

I immediately assumed the position of response, dropping to my knees, bowing my head and holding my hands open and out.

“Forgive me, centuron. I don’t speak his language.” I hoped it wouldn’t get me zapped, not when I had warming to get through before breakfast.

“He likes to fight; he has been doing so since we removed him from the transport last night.” HekVar walked around Big Blue in a circle. “I will allow you translators.”

Great. Now I’d have to talk to him, and he was completely untrained. I changed position, clasping my hands behind my neck, and elevating my head an inch higher. It meant I needed direction.

“What do you not understand, Gnat?”

I’d never gotten a raw captive before. “Centuron, will I be held responsible for his infractions?”

He considered that. “Not for seven days.”

I only had a week to train him? It would be simpler to kill him. Touching my head and palms to the ground in the position of gratitude nearly made me choke, but I was a good slave, so that’s what I did. “My thanks, centuron.”

We were counted and then hustled out of the crawl. My new bedmate didn’t try to escape – the passages beneath the arena were narrow, featureless stone, so there was nowhere for him to go – until we hit the sands. Then he ran at an entry and discovered the inhibitor grids.

He landed at my feet again, totally dazed.

“Those are charged, too.” I held out my hand and helped him to his feet. He was big and heavy. HekVar had better get those translators for us soon, or this one wouldn’t last the day. “Stay with me and do what I do.”

“Nua.” He slapped his chest and glared down at me. “Jalka Adan.”

“Jalka Adan?” I pointed at his chest as I repeated it, and he inclined his head. I nodded and tapped my own sternum. “Gnat.”

“Nyatuh?”

His palate was really too fluid for my lingo, but it was close enough. I copied his gesture and inclined my head. “Yes.” Then I saw the warmers coming out of the training hall and grabbed his arm. “This way.”

The warmers never wasted time but went right to work and attacked us with their padded weapons. We were supposed to dodge and evade. The Hsktskt considered it a good way to loosen tight slave muscle.

Jalka Adan didn’t understand, and would have counter attacked the warmer who came at him, had I not rolled in front of him and shoved him back before whirling away from the padded pole end.

The warmer, an old slave named Yerv, snorted in disgust. “Why give you him?”

“Don’t know.” I yelped as large blue hands grabbed me and Jalka tried to shove me behind him. “No, big guy, it’s okay. Yerv, you rec his kind?”

“Jorenian,” Yerv told me as he went after a sluggish Tingalean. “They self term.”

Which meant they committed suicide. A lot of newcomers did, when they got to the crawls – not every species accepts enslavement, and it was better than going crackbrain and killing everyone around them. As a couple of Emsalmalin warmers headed our way, I tugged at the Jorenian’s arm. “Come on, move.”

He glanced at me, then the spiny pair. “Fa klaree n’oal.”

“You can Fah-clare-ree-no-all later. Come on.” I yanked, and he finally followed me.

Warming continued for another ten minutes before a guard sounded the end chime and the warmers retreated back to the training hall. I prevented the Jorenian from getting whacked, but it wasn’t easy – he kept digging his heels in and wanting to counter. By the end of the session, some of the guards had perked up and were watching us – not a good thing.

“Stupid Gnat,” Yerv muttered as he passed by me. “He get you killed.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I hadn’t had this much trouble since they’d stuck me with an Icthorii last cycle. The feeding horn sounded, and I looked up at the stern blue face. “Time to eat.”

I showed him how to fall into line and shepherded him into the feeding hall. Since Gffra was gone, there was a space open at my table, and I pushed Jalka to kneel down beside me.

Distributor drones rolled up and down the aisles delivering food, which was allocated based on species and body weight. I showed the Jorenian how to identify himself by using the DNA scanner, and watched the drone dole out a huge pile of assorted syn veg.

“Not a meat eater, huh?” I scanned and got my own small bowl of mixed protein stew.

Jalka gingerly sampled his fare and grimaced. “Gtak.”

“Yeah, this sucks, but it’s all you’ll get until after the bouts. Force it, you need the calories.” I made faces to go with the words, and he must have understood because he started eating.

We were only allotted ten minutes for feeding before the guards came to hustle us out to walk. We had to trot in pairs around a one kim track for the next hour without stopping, but it was the one place we were allowed to speak to each other. We formed our usual information relay teams and I passed the word on about Gffra.

Kosper, the latest and smartest of the crawl bosses, fell in behind me and Jalka. “I see you scored raw meat,” he called to me. “Need any help?”

“Not yet.” I checked the guards to see if they were watching Jalka. They were. “Kos, you got anybody who speaks this guy’s lingo?”

“He’s Jorenian. I know some.”

“Good.” I let out a pent-up breath. “Tell him we’re getting translators, but until we do he needs to do what I do.” When Kos relayed that, Jalka almost turned around, then eyed me and said something back.

“He wants to know your name.”

I frowned. “Gnat”

Jalka shook his head and said something else to Kos.

The crawl boss frowned. “Something about kin – I think he wants your birth name.”
I didn’t remember the one I’d been given, but I’d heard one I liked once, from an old Terran merchant trader. He’d been beaten to death by the guards for trying to start a riot.

I looked at Jalka. “Mary.”

“Mah-ar-ee.” He made it sound pretty, then he said something else to Kos.

Kos chuckled. “Uh, he doesn’t want you to hit him in the head with the rock anymore.”

Fair enough. “Okay, but tell him that he has to sleep when I do.”

The scrubs horn sounded, and I guided my new bedmate to the cleanser corridor. He watched me pull off my tunic, then reluctantly did the same before following me under the sprayers. I rubbed my hands over my skin, sluicing off the sweat and dirt, then felt something pulpy touch my hip.

“Suck on someone else.” I shoved at the Edpriyin trying to attach itself to me.

“You taste like alloy.” The skinny bloodeater gave me a lascivious grin. “But I like your new friend, Gnat. He looks hydrated.”

Jalka grabbed him by his emaciated throat. “F’tal et samballo neechal Mah-ar-ee.”

The Edpriyin’s four eyes about popped from their sockets before Kos and a couple others were able to pry him away from Jalka. Kos argued with my bedmate for a minute, then snorted and gestured to me. “Gnat, say Ayral tebas tunirecas.”

I repeated the words and watched Jalka’s expression change from enraged to only somewhat pissed off. I looked at the crawl boss. “What did that mean?”

“You shielded the bloodeater. It’s the only way to keep him alive.” As guards entered the tube to see what the hold up was, Kos hustled us out to the dryers. “Gnat, you’d better ask HekVar to pair the Jorenian with me for the bouts today, or he’ll go after anyone who lands a blow on you.”

I was completely confused. “Why the hell would he do that?”

“Don’t know.” Kos waved a few tendrils. “I think he’s decided to adopt you or something.”

We donned fresh tunics before we were marched back to the arena. Heavy betting already filled the board displays, which meant we’d have a capacity crowd. As soon as I saw HekVar, I dropped and requested attention. Since I hardly ever assumed the bitch position, he came over to me.

I thought of how to say it, and touched my forehead to the edge of his footgear. “Centuron, it is possible that the new Jorenian slave may serve longer if paired with Kos.”

“Indeed.” HekVar gestured for me to rise and follow him into an empty crawl. Once we were out of sight of the others, he hunkered down to my eye level. It was kind of a compliment. “Why do you ask this of me?”

I might get Jalka zapped to death for telling the truth, but the centuron was the only one who could switch pairings. “He tried to kill a bloodeater in the cleansers for touching me. He doesn’t seem to understand that I’m sword bait, same as him.”

“Has he attempted to breed you?”

“No.” It was odd that he hadn’t made a demand for sex yet – that was the reason we were bedmates. “He might have some kind of taboo about Terrans.”

“More likely he thinks you a child.”

Why would that make a difference? “As you say, centuron.”

“He can fight alone for now.” HekVar tapped my cheek with one of his talons. “You will do well not to become attached to this one, Gnat.”

I never got attached to any of them. “Yes, centuron.”

2006-05-21T23:37:00.000-04:00

There were three types of arena bouts – singles, in which one slave fought against another; pairs, which were two on two; and meleés, groups of slaves against guards, which were always bloodbaths. Most slaves fought singles in the beginning, for physical evaluation and to weed out the weaklings, and then were put in paired bouts after they proved themselves. Meleés should have been called executions, but the Hsktskt liked the slavers who paid to watch to think we always had a fighting chance.

We didn’t, of course. No slave had ever killed a Hsktskt in the arena.

That afternoon I was paired with Paddala, a bad-tempered Trytinorn who hated bipeds like me. He had lousy peripheral vision, and nearly accidentally stomped on me as we entered the arena. Next to him, I really was gnat-sized.

I picked up the short sword one of the guards tossed down from the stands. Every slave was given the same size blade, as the Hsktskt thought that kept things even. I eyed the other blade thrown in for my partner. Considering his size, it was like throwing him a toothpick. “Are you going to use that?”

“Idiot Terran.” He reached down with his nasal appendage, grabbed me, and hoisted me onto his back. Then he picked up the weapon. “Keep quiet and watch my hindquarters.”

“Easy job, considering the size of your ass.” I watched the other team enter from the opposite side of the crawls. One was a snake-like Tingalean, the other a three-foot tall spider being. “Oh, no. Is that an Aksellan?”

“Yes.” Paddala trumpeted his displeasure. “What did you do, little one, spit on a guard?”

Both of our opponents were relatively new but effective fighters – probably because they each packed enough natural body poisons to wipe out the entire crowd. There was no way to spar with their kind, we had to knock them out or kill them immediately. That meant we had to be very fast and strong. The Trytinorn was strong, I was fast – but that was all we had going for us.

I heard alien laughter. Some slaver must have made a special request, thinking the match would be amusing.

The snake and spider were splitting up, each going to either side of the arena for a flanking attack. No more time to sit and cry over my bad luck. I grabbed Paddala’s shaggy neck fringe and leaned over. “Insult me, and do it loud.”

“What?” He didn’t get it.

“You blockheaded behemoth! Can’t you follow simple instructions?” I shouted, thumping the top of his skull with my fist. “All you’re good for is hauling waste!”

The low, hollow groan he gave wasn’t from pain. “Shut up, pipsqueak, or I will use you to polish my tusks.”

“Did I ask for your opinion, you stupid oversized piece of meat?” I watched our opponents, then added in a low tone, “Throw me so that I land between them, then pretend you’ve gone crazy.”

“This had better work, or I won’t have to pretend.” Paddala’s appendage curled around my waist, and he lifted me high over his skull.

“And don’t try to help me,” I murmured. I made a show of struggling and screamed, “You colossal idiot! Put me down!”

“Gladly, runt.” He tossed me to the enemy.

He didn’t throw me too hard, so I had to make it look like a bad landing. I hit the sand and rolled, dropping my sword as I shrieked and clutched at a non-existent injury to my arm. At the same time, Paddala started snorting and cursing and stomping around, waving his blade wildly.

The ploy diverted the Aksellan and the Tingalean, who turned to converge on me, the easiest kill. I continued the bogus act, howling and crawling across the sands away from Paddala. There were shouts from the stands and the crawls, so I must have looked pretty convincing.

That was the other thing I was good at – faking.

The guards didn’t like us to rush the finale, but both the Tingalean and the Aksellan were naturally quick strikers, and they closed in fast. I measured the evaporating space between me and death, and when I judged the time was right, I curled over and brought my knees up under me in a surrendering pose.

Not yet not yet not yet. I heard the Tingalean hiss, and I tensed. Almost there. Almost.

Any slave who made a kill was given special privileges for three rotations after a bout, so both the snake and the spider jumped at me, eager to be the first to sink their blades and fangs into my hide. My death represented more food, warmth, and possibly an interval with a professional pleasure-giver.

Only I somersaulted out of the way.

The Aksellan tried to rear back, but the Tingalean followed his species’ tendency to bite whatever moved on a killing strike. In self-defense, the spider bit back. They stabbed each other with their swords, then went down as their wounds and poisons went to work on each other.

I didn’t like watching them die, but it had been them or me. I wondered when I would stop caring if it was me.

Paddala stomped over, picked me up and placed me on the curve of his brow. “Very clever, little one. I hope I’m never matched against you.”

I covered my guilt by reaching down to pat his cheek. “If you are, I’ll make it quick.”

2006-05-20T23:40:00.000-04:00

Making two kills entitled me to return to my crawl if I wanted, but I stayed. Jalka Adan would be fighting one-on-one, and I wanted to see what he was made of. I had a feeling HekVar wanted to pair us – some kind of Hsktskt inside joke, putting me with Big Blue, whose species probably hated Terrans.

The lizards had a weird sense of humor.

Jalka had watched enough bouts to enter the arena on guard, which was good – they matched him against a very tough Baduvarti male named Mengud with plated skin and half again Jalka’s muscle mass. They started out circling each other, sizing up the assets and watching movement rhythms. My bedmate was paying close attention, not allowing the shouts from the stands to distract him.

Good, I thought, leaning against the view grid of the observation crawl. Keep those white eyeballs open, don’t look away for a second.

Mengud didn’t have much imagination – he just barreled his way through his bouts – but he was solid and it took a lot to hurt him. He came at Jalka first, head-on, testing the waters with sweeping cross-cut to the midsection. Jalka spun a second too late and caught the tip of the blade, then returned the favor with a lateral thrust. His eyes widened as he felt the jolt of the blade hitting and sliding off the Baduvarti’s thick abdominal plating.

Numbskull. I grabbed the grid slats, wishing I could stab him myself. Can’t you see the thin spots on his chest?

By then they had crossed swords and dug their feet in, wrestling for control. Muscles bulged, sweat ran, and yet neither of them gave in. This bored the spectators, who started jeering, and a guard shouted out a warning that thankfully Mengud understood.

“Break!” he snarled into Jalka’s face before shoving him away. He followed through with a fist to the Jorenian’s jaw, but didn’t land the blow squarely and only made him stagger back. Mengud stooped and took a handful of sand, and flung it in his face before tackling him.

Shit. He wasn’t going to make it.

“Come on,” I said under my breath, digging my fingers into the grid as I watched them roll, blades flashing. “Come on, get up, get up! ”

Mengud made a funny sound and went flying backward, and Jalka rose to his feet in a single fluid motion. Suddenly, he had claws, lots of long, sharp blue ones. Mengud saw them but he couldn’t get up, something was wrong with one of his legs. His sword had been knocked from his hand and was a good twenty yards away. He began crawling toward it, but from the expression on his flat face he knew the game was over.

The Jorenian looked up at the spectators, who were screaming for the kill. He shouted something in his lingo and flung down his blade.

“Jalka!” I tried to remember what he’d said during warm-ups. “Fa klaree n’oal! Now!”

He glanced my way, and for a second looked even more pissed-off. Then he went over to Mengud, and raised his claws. The Baduvarti dropped his head back, to make it easier. Jalka used a single strike to rip out his throat, and he was dead before he slumped over on the blood-soaked sand.

The spectators loved it.

As they cheered, the Jorenian he walked over to the grid and looked down at me. He showed me his hands, and the Baduvarti’s blood dripped from his claws. But it was his expression that made my chest hurt. He wasn’t angry or bitter or disgusted.
He was sad.

Jalka gestured back at Mengud’s body. “Thees sah-hucks, Mah-ar-ree.”

Yes, it did.

As the guards led him away and dragged Mengud off the sands, someone came up behind me. I heard the metallic clink of the uniform, but I didn’t bother to assume the position of response or even turn around. Let them zap me.

“Gnat.” HekVar’s talons tugged my hand away from the grid. I was bleeding, too. “It is time to cleanse.”

#

I went through the sprayers and the dryers like a drone, then marched back with the other fighters to my crawl. Jalka never showed, so I assumed HekVar had decided to move him to another tier. It was for the best – Kos told me after scrubs that as I suspected, Jorenians weren’t too fond of Terrans. And I had hated seeing that look on his blue face after the kill.

I used to look like, once. A long time ago.

I took the extra rations and rest intervals that were my privileges for winning, but I couldn’t eat and I didn’t want to sleep. When someone opened the door and threw something at me, I barely felt the sting.

“Mah-ar-ee?”

I opened my eyes and saw Jalka standing over me. He was wearing a wristcom and holding another one out to me. I took it, put it on my arm and activated it.

“The centuron with the scarred head gave these to me.” He smiled a little. “We can speak and understand each other now.”

“Yeah.” And I had nothing to say. “Terrific.”

“Your pardon, lady. I can see you are not well.” He looked me over. “Were you injured in the arena?”

Only where it didn’t show. “No, I’m fine.” I sat up and curled an arm around my knees. “How about you?”

He touched his hip. “I received only a minor wound.”

Which reminded me. “Do you want sex?”

He looked stunned, and checked his wristcom as if he thought it were malfunctioning. “What say you?”

“You know.” I put my hand on his good hip and rubbed it. “That’s why we’re roomed together. Male to female.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Then he removed my hand. “I cannot share such intimacy with you.”

“No problem.” I wasn’t insulted; plenty of slaves preferred their own kind or gender, and to tell the truth sex had always been kind of a chore. “I bet you have a lot of questions.”

“I do.” He crouched down by my pile of grass. “How long have you been here?”

That he wanted to know about me kind of threw me for a moment. “I don’t know. We’re not permitted to keep records or anything.” I never thought about my first life and the raid that had ended it; surviving in my second life kept me busy. “I was taken when I was little.” I frowned. “I’m not a child, you know. I think I’m almost fifteen.”

“Indeed.” He stared at the sword scars on my legs. There were a lot of them. “Why did they not leave you behind?”

The Hsktskt were pretty famous for leaving the children of the colonies they raided to starve in the ruins.

“One of the raiders kicked me out of the way, and I kicked back. He decided I would be good arena bait.” I let my lip curl on one side. “HekVar kept me off the sand and had me clean out crawls until I was old enough to fight.”

He looked at the ceiling for a moment. “What of your kin?”

“They were all killed when I was taken.” I sighed. “Look, we need to talk about what’s expected of you here. You have to follow the rules, or you won’t live very long.”

“I am not one to . . . follow rules.” He rose and held a six-fingered hand down to me. “We should go.”

I couldn’t stand up, I was laughing too hard. Finally I got myself under control. “Um, no. We can’t.”

“Why not?”

“If you haven’t noticed, Jorenian, this place is lousy with Hsktskt, and they don’t like their slaves trying to run away.” His expression didn’t change, and I rolled my eyes. “Okay, so you aren’t afraid of the lizards. Besides them, there are security monitors and alarm sensors all over the place. We stay here or we die.”

He hauled me to my feet. “We will die if we stay here.”

“I’ve done okay so far.” His gentle touch bothered me, and I pulled my hand from his. “You haven’t seen what happens when someone gets caught trying to escape.”

“They are punished?”

“They’re executed. Tied back to back and thrown to the guards in the arena.” I checked the door, but no one was listening in. “We could be punished just for talking about this, so drop it.”

“You’re afraid of death.” He folded his arms. “I am not.”

“Don’t let me keep you.” I gestured to the door. “Life is cheap around here, and there will be someone to replace you tomorrow.” There was always someone.

“You called to me in the arena.”

I shrugged. “I don’t like breaking in a new bedmate.”

“You do not wish to kill any more than I do.” He moved to tower over me, but like in the arena, he wasn’t angry. “I saw it in your eyes.”

“Shut up.” I pushed him away and started pacing. “I have six rotations to train you, Jorenian, then I’ll be punished for your mistakes. And if I have to take a zap or a beating because of you, I’ll strangle you in your sleep.”

“You will not.” He looked out at the darkening sky, then gave me that little smile again. “Very well. Tell me what to do, Mary.”

2006-05-19T23:22:00.000-04:00

My bedmate listened to me that night, and in the days that followed did everything like I told him to do. Living as an arena slave wasn’t really all that difficult, but he didn’t like it. No one could tell from his expression or attitude, which he kept under control, and he didn’t talk much. I learned from Kos that when the tips of a Jorenian’s claws extruded, it meant he was upset or angry.
Jalka went around flashing them most of the day.

Our privilege time came to an end, and we were both sent back to the arena. I was paired off as usual while Jalka continued to fight solo, but we both survived each day. Other than acting a little protective of me around other males during scrubs, he didn’t show much emotion. I figured he was disconnecting from it, the way I had.

That came to a screeching halt when a new group of sword bait were brought in and turned out to be Terran-bashers.

There was always someone who had it in for me; after all, my kind had pushed the Allied League of Worlds into war with the Hsktskt. Even before that humans had been unpopular with other species – homeworld Terrans were rabid xenophobes who refused to let aliens breed with them or live on their planet. Although I’d never lived there, and could care less how pure someone’s blood was, I’d still taken a lot of waste over the years on account of them. It was just another part of being an arena slave. Usually I ignored them and they got tired of baiting me.

Usually.

The bashers were a nasty bunch of T’Nilf bug warriors who had been captured while defending their colony against the Hsktskt. Seeing that many huge red insectile beings come in together made everyone nervous – nobody likes a swarm.

They didn’t cause any trouble, however, except for the fact that they zeroed in on me the first day.

Jalka and I had just gotten our rations when a half dozen of the buzzing T’Nilf came buzzing past, and a multi-jointed limb knocked my bowl of stew out of my hands and into the dirt.

“Cluuumsyyy Teeeraaan,” one of them said.

Jalka tensed, but I shook my head, picked up what was left in the bowl and went back to eating. The bugs moved on.

“That was deliberate,” he said, glaring at the T’Nilf as they took their places at another station. He looked around for guards before dumping a big portion of his syn veg into my bowl. “Take this.” Before I could jump on him for violating feeding rules, he added, “I have enough to share with you.”

“You need more food than me,” I snapped.

He turned the glare on me. “Do not make me feed it to you.”

The bashing continued. The bugs seemed to hover around me wherever I went. Jalka tried to watch out for them, but they were pretty cagey, and I ended up being “accidentally” tripped, shoved, and knocked aside on a daily basis. Once I fell during exercise and two of them stomped me by pretending to be unable to avoid me. When they couldn’t make me drop my rations, they started spitting some kind of vile-smelling green mucous in them as they passed by.

The guards would have zapped them if they’d seen them harassing me, but just my luck, every time it happened the centuron on duty seemed to be looking the other way. And Jalka only got angrier, every time it happened.

“You got problems,” Kosper said to me on the track. I’d been shoved face-first into a warmer’s pole earlier that morning, thanks to the bugs, and blood kept trickling from my swollen nose. Jalka had moved ahead, staying between me and the T’Nilf. “I’ve talked to them, and they pretty much want you dead.”

“Good to know.” I was more worried about Jalka; if he didn’t get his temper under control he would get us both killed. “Any suggestions?”

“You need to take out the female; the others are male and subservient to her.” He pointed to the largest T’Nilf, then hesitated. “I can bribe a slaver to make a request, get you on the sand with her.”

Jalka overheard and dropped back. “It is too dangerous.”

“I can’t go on like this.” I sized up the female. I’d never taken on one of her kind before, but I’d seen her fight. She was over-confident and her blade work was sloppy. But I didn’t have any barter, and the crawl boss didn’t intervene for free. “Can’t afford a bribe, though, Kos.”

My bedmate shook his head. “We will find another way.”

“Paddala’s already paid for the guard,” Kos said, surprising me. “Said to tell you it’s for the last bout.”

“Mary.” Jalka sounded grim. “No.”

I’d have to revise my bad opinion of Trytinorns. “Set it up, Kos.”

“You are not fighting that female,” Jalka insisted.

The crawl boss chuckled. “You got spine, Gnat. You got spine.” He nodded to Jalka and moved on.

“I need to go over some moves with you when we get back,” I said absently, already making plans in my head. “Can you teach me that rolling block you –”

A hand dropped on my shoulder, hard enough to make me jump. “Why do you not listen to me?” Jalka demanded. “You cannot challenge her. She will divert your path.”

He really was upset. I felt a little warm inside, knowing that. “It’s the only way. If I don’t do something, they’ll kill me anyway.”

“I will speak with them.”

“Kos already tried, and he’s the crawl boss. Why would they listen to you?” I saw a guard approaching and lowered my voice. “Centuron. Drop it.”

When the guard pointed at us, we dropped into position. Only then did he approach and say, “HekVar orders you to report to quarters.”

I made the affirmative gesture and got up to leave the track. A hard claw shoved me forward, then something heavy hit my leg. I heard something distant snap. Pain shot up through my whole body. Hard hands grabbed at me, but my tunic ripped and I bounced against the centuron’s chest plate before collapsing at his feet.

The pain was so bad that I barely saw the prod stick coming down to zap me. Then everything melted into a white-hot blur, and I burned away into darkness.

#

I woke up on the sands, with my right leg in a slate-and rope splint, which was bad – they only did that for broken bones. My arms were bound at the elbow to something behind me, which was worse. Then I felt the coils of rope around my waist, and the heat and muscle pressed against me, and knew it was the end.

Jalka and I were tied together, back to back.

I got my feet under me and tugged on the ropes. “What happened?”

Jalka groaned, but started lifting when I did. “I struck the guard who harmed you.”

My eyes popped open. The stands were filled with Hsktskt, all sitting quiet and watchful. There were no bets on the boards, and no slavers around, which meant this was official. “Did you kill him?”

“Yes.”

I closed my eyes briefly. They would take their time with us, then.

HekVar strode out on the sands, and stopped before me. Hsktskt don’t show much emotion, but from the way his tongue flickered and his scar pulsed it was obvious he was outraged. He didn’t hit me, though.

"You should have trained this one better, Gnat.”

“Yes, centuron.” I met his oversized yellow eyes, which were half-closed. I don’t know why I said what I did next. “I’m going to miss you.”

He took hold of my tunic and jerked me close, then pressed something into my hand. “Die quickly.” He left the arena.

The small plas pouch was warm and filled with some kind of liquid, and had a pressure dart on one side, but I already knew what it was. Hsktskt took poison to avoid capture, but I’d never heard of them giving a suicide sac to a slave. Especially one who had gotten one of their own killed.

As compliments went, it was pretty major.

The T’Nilf female and one of her males were thrown out onto the sand, also tied back-to-back at the mid-limb joints. But instead of sending a detachment of guards in to hack us to bits, HekVar threw four short daggers out onto the sand.

Maybe he thought I wouldn’t have the nerve to use the poison.

Jalka folded one of his hands over mine. “Pull up your legs. I will get the weapons.”

I looked at the bugs, who were struggling to find their balance and get to the daggers. They had longer forelimbs, and neither of them had to deal with a broken leg. I tightened my fingers over the pouch. I could inject both of us, and we’d be dead in seconds. It would be painless.

And the hell of my second life would be over.

Over the rushing sound in my ears, I heard Jalka say, “Mary.” His fingers entwined with mine. “Wherever the path takes us, I am with you.”

I’d never had anyone care about me. I was a slave, sword bait, worthless now that I couldn’t fight. I hadn’t done this Jorenian any favors. Yet Jalka had protected me, watched over me. He’d even killed a Hsktskt for me.

Die quickly.

No. I wouldn’t. Being with him was worth fighting for a few more minutes of life.

I lifted my legs, groaning as the ends of my broken bone shifted. Jalka pulled me over onto his back and went for the blades, and got two before the T’Nilf reached them. He backed away, still crouched over to keep me off the sand. All I could see were the silent Hsktskt watching us, waiting for blood to spill.

Jalka fighting while balancing me on his back gave the bugs a big advantage, but he didn’t let them take it. Rather than continue to retreat, he attacked, and I felt him slashing at the female with both blades. I tried to keep my weight centered and coiled up my good leg, ready to kick at the bugs if they tried to attack from behind. I couldn’t see exactly what Jalka was doing but I heard alloy clashing and felt his muscles shifting under my back. He should have been coiled like a neurotic Tingalean but his movements were graceful and fluid, almost like he was floating around the arena.

He took a hit, then a deep growl rumbled out of his chest and he lunged, jerking the ropes binding us hard. She must have countered his move because he dropped and rolled, ending up facedown in the sand with me on top, and the T’Nilf only a few feet away.

“Are you hurt?” I asked him.

“No.” He spat out some sand. “Is she?”

I saw dark blood dribbling from the female’s side. “Nice deep gash on the left torso. She’s bleeding a lot.”

He struggled to his feet. “I must do the same to the male.”

The problem with that was, the female guarded the male just as fiercely as Jalka protected me. He went after her three times, but couldn’t get past her guard. I realized he had lied to me when I saw green blood on the sands.

I had to do something, but all I had was the poison. I could do myself, but I couldn’t bring myself to kill him. Then I clutched the little sac. “When she charges, turn around and let her at me.”

“You wish to embrace the stars?” he sounded breathless.,

“I want to give her a little present.” I pressed my hand against his. “Just trust me.”

The female charged at us, and at the last possible second Jalka jerked around, facing me toward her. I deflected her sword thrust with a kick and pressed the sac against the open wound at her side. She staggered away, then swayed and buzzed.

“Back around them,” I said to Jalka. “Get me to face the male.”

He did as I asked. The male was distracted by the female’s shuddering and was fooled by my feint. I emptied the rest of the sac into the side of his throat, then kicked him away.

They both went down, laboring for breath, then fell over and went into convulsions. It only lasted a minute, then they didn’t move again.

“What did you do?”

“Poison.” I let the empty sac fall from my fingers. The bugs would be the last beings I ever harmed, and I felt relieved, knowing that. I was tired of killing. My eyes started watering, and a strange, hitching sound came up out of my throat. “The guards will come in and do us now. I’m sorry, I know I should have used it on us.”

Jalka said something, but it was lost in the explosion. We both were thrown into a wall, and the Hsktskt in the stands tumbled down around us. Blood streaked down my face, and I was pretty sure my other leg was now broken.

"I am . . . glad . . . you did . . . not.” He inched around to put me between the wall and him. “Don’t cry . . Mary.” He went still.

I tried to keep my eyes open, but they didn’t want to cooperate. The last thing I saw were strange launches, flying over the open roof of the arena.

#

I was kind of in and out of it for a while after that. I was pretty banged up, and whoever had me let me sleep. I dreamed of the arena, and Jalka, only we prevailed together over every opponent we faced.

They were good dreams.

When I woke up, I still felt like I was asleep. They had put me in the cleanest place I’d ever seen in my life – some kind of medical facility, with tons of shiny equipment and Jorenian slaves dressed in brand new tunics. Not one of them wore yellow, so I wasn’t exactly sure they were slaves.

Someone had taken away my slave tunic, and dressed me in a plain white garment. It was softer than anything I’d ever touched. They’d also put two strange white things over my legs, from the ankles to above the knees. They were hard and smooth, like some kind of body armor, but lightweight and strong – I couldn’t bend my knees at all.

Maybe they were trying to hobble me.

The slaves called the female who took care of me Healer Anea. She looked a little like Jalka, but had darker blue skin, a purple streak in her black hair and was a bit shorter. She had the same white eyes, though, and every time she looked at me, I thought about him.

When Anea discovered I was awake, she brought me food and helped me eat. The food was clean and fresh and tasted wonderful. She made me put on a funny necklace that turned out to be translator, then through it said that I had to remain quiet and rest.

I had no problem doing that.

I waited for her to do something worse, but all she did over the next three days was bring me more food and keep me clean. She didn’t want me to assume any position but to stay flat on my back.

None of her rules made sense, either. She’d say stuff like “Child, you must not sleep on the deck, you will aggravate your injuries” and “Do not hide food in your linens, little one, you may have as much as you like, whenever you like.” She never zapped me or even raised her voice, except once when she helped me out of the thing she made me sleep on so I could take my first scrub. Then she looked at my body and got angry.

“Sorry.” I cringed, covering myself. Maybe they had some kind of taboo against nudity.

She called one of the females she called nurses over to help me and stomped out of the cleansing cubicle.

“Did I offend her?” I asked the nurse, but she insisted I’d done nothing.

Anea and her females kept better watch over me than the Hsktskt centurons, but they wouldn’t tell me anything about what had happened or where Jalka was. Every time I asked, they changed the subject or made an excuse of work and moved away from me.
I got tired of not knowing.

As soon as I felt strong enough, I slipped out of the soft thing they made me sleep on and snuck out of the medical place. It was worth getting zapped, just to see how pretty and clean the place was. I wandered down a long, circular corridor, wondering if there would be another arena waiting around the next corner. I didn’t care if I had to fight again, but I needed to know if Jalka was all right. Surely someone would tell me.

I heard two men speaking just ahead of me, and pressed myself against a wall panel.

“—arena slave,” a deep, stern voice said. “No education, no training whatsoever. Anea says the child has had most of her bones broken, and she is covered in scars.”

“She knew enough to stay alive in that place,” I heard Jalka say. “She earned her scars.”

His voice made me slump against the wall. He had survived, that was all I cared about. They could do whatever they wanted to me now.

A few seconds later Jalka crouched down in front of me. “Mary, what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in medical, resting.”

“They won’t let me sleep on the floor.” I tried to smile, but my eyes were watering and I couldn’t see right. “I didn’t know you were alive. I’m glad you made it.”

“Your pardon. I should have come to you sooner.” He put one arm under my shoulders and the other under the strange things on my legs, then lifted me into his arms. To the other male, he said, “Inform my ClanMother that Mary will be in my quarters.”

The older man didn’t like that. “Anea will not be pleased.”

“She may come to examine her there.”

Jalka carried me down the corridor and into a funny kind of box with a sliding door. It moved up, then opened into another corridor.

“Where are we?” I asked as he carried me past some door panels.

“This is the RainWing, HouseClan Adan’s flag ship.” He stopped at one and punched the access panel.

A ship? “How did we get here? Who owns us?”

“My HouseClan came to retrieve me.” He smiled as the door opened and he carried me in. “No one owns you and I any more, Mary. We’re free.”

I didn’t believe him, until I saw the rooms he’d been given. One was big enough to sleep twenty slaves, and there were other rooms attached to that. He set me down on another padded thing, and put a pillow under my head and legs.

I watched him prepare two servers at an odd-looking food station. “Why did you bring me with you?”

“Why did you not choose an easy death in the arena?” he countered as he came over and gave me one of the servers. It was filled with a colored liquid that smelled sweet.

It was hard to tell the truth, but I figured I owed him that much. “I didn’t want to leave you.”

He smiled at me. “Nor I you.”

I recalled what he’d said to me in the arena. Wherever the path takes us, I am with you. He’d really meant that.

A little confused, I sipped the drink. The liquid was warm and so sweet it made my teeth ache – and I wanted to chug it down like water. “I don’t understand all this.”

“In time, you will.” He took my server and put it aside, then folded my hands in his. “Will you share your journey with me and my kin?”

I thought about it. “Can I sleep on the floor?”

“If that is your wish, yes.”

There were things I used to wish for, but I’d forgotten about them. Maybe now it would be all right to remember. “Okay.”

For Mary, aka BarGnat, with love –
Keep fighting.
S.L. Viehl, December 2002